


how the light gets in

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Canon Divergence, Declarations Of Love, Don’t copy to another site, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, John Watson is tired, M/M, PTSD, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02, Protective John, Quill says we do, Recovery, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Tropey as hell, brief Sherlock/OMC, do we need more of them?, split POV, there is some sad wanking, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: Red wine always makes him tipsier than usual and he finds himself saying, the words slurring a bit. “You know, I’ve got to ask. Do you always shoot cabbies for people you barely you know?”John meets his gaze over the rim of his glass, and there’s something there that Sherlock can’t pin down. “Not for everyone,” he says, meaningfully, pointedly, his smile all teeth.Sherlock feels faint. He’s flirting. Is he? Sherlock has to backpedal, get out of the hole he’s dug himself into.“You should come home with me tonight,”Oh god no, that’s the exact opposite of what he should be doing.John’s eyes widen and he blinks at him. “Er-““I mean, 221B’s closer, it’s late,” he scrambles for words.  “And you’ll be staying there anyway. I mean- well, I’m assuming. Ms Hudson’s already put up the bed-“ Christ, he’s not being clever and sexy atall,he’s blabbering like an idiot-
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 372
Kudos: 763





	1. run no more

**Author's Note:**

> [based on this tumblr post](https://widowsisa2018heistfilm.tumblr.com/post/188744277867/nothing-new-here-just-that-sherlock-had-already)  
> 

> _Well baby I've been here before_
> 
> _I've seen this room and I've walked this floor_
> 
> _I used to live alone before I knew you_

Almost two years of sobriety.

Barely anything if he counts it on fingertips, but it’s long enough for the worst of the scars to have faded from his forearms since his last stint at rehab, although if he looks carefully he can make out some of them. That one, botched injection, stubborn little mark, probably permanent, if it’s not gone by now. 

He’s supposed to be getting a fresh start, _a new beginning._ Seemed so stupid back then. No one gets second chances, do they. You only start once, and Sherlock had messed that up. Half-dead behind a dumpster, choking on your own vomit at your brother’s feet while paramedics frantically try to restart your heart; definitely a low point. Mycroft still keeps the list from that overdose in his wallet. It’s a tiny, yellowed piece of paper. _Sentiment._ His big brother isn’t entirely immune from it. 

Ah well. At least moving out of that rubbish flat in he’d stayed in since uni was a good first step. He has Ms Hudson to thank for that. He scans his eyes over the mess in the flat, towering piles of clothes, boxes full of the possessions he’s gathered over the years. It’s been over a week and the task of organising all of it is still too daunting to consider. A bowl full of sobriety chips perches precariously on top of a chest of drawers. Still hasn’t tumbled to the ground yet. Maybe he could keep the flat like this, give it a Bohemian feel and all. It would piss off Mycroft, at least, and that’s always an admirable pursuit. He does get _so_ unsettled when he has nowhere to sit. 

He still doesn’t know what to do with the empty room upstairs. Use it for storing the larger tubs of chemicals? A second laboratory? The one he’s set up in the kitchen is working just fine. Although it keeps pricking at him, having all that empty space, and nothing to fill it with.  
  
He stays out most of the day, works cases with Lestrade for twelve, fourteen hours straight until he’s dog tired. When he comes home there’s always tea stuffed into whatever tiny space is unoccupied on the kitchen table. Sometimes Ms Hudson keeps tin-foiled covered casseroles in the oven. She’d stuck a post-it note to it, a few days ago. _Don’t use this for experiments!_

Kind of her, but for some reason Sherlock doesn’t like perching on the armchair in front of the fireplace and picking at the food alone. The television usually works to drown out the silence, but Sherlock can’t stand any of the programs. 

So when he’s back, he falls into bed. The exhaustion always catches up with him. 

When there’s nothing on, he bothers Molly at the morgue.

It’s a nice flat, he thinks. Terribly nice. Which is why it’s entirely unexplainable that he hates staying there so much.

***

“You should get a flat share.”  
  


“What for,” Sherlocks scoffs, not even looking up from his microscope. He hadn’t even noticed Mike come in. He’s nice enough; strikes up conversations with him sometimes, when it’s just the two of them, doesn’t engage in (much) small talk, gets him a coffee sometimes when he’s working in the lab. 

An idiot, though still, because flatmate? Please.  
  
He’s already been through that once, at university. It had been hell. So much so that he’d had to ask Mycroft to intervene and get him a single room. School had been decidedly worse; someone would always be writing a new slur on his door; “ _fag”_ and “ _cocksucker”_ were quite a favourite. Having your socks stolen wasn’t quite as bad, in all fairness, but Sherlock had never been the model roommate, had he. (Couldn’t quite keep his mouth shut; turns out people _don’t_ like knowing who’s shagging who when it’s your best friend and your girlfriend)

Preferable to stay alone. Sherlock does so abhor _people._   
  
“Someone to help you pay the rent?”  
  
“I can afford it.” Between his trust fund and the cases, he doesn’t particularly need to split the rent. And Ms Hudson lets him pay a fraction of it, anyway.  
  
“Would be nice to have someone around,” Mike replies without a beat.  
  
This time Sherlock laughs louder. It sounds a bit bitter, even to his own ears . “No one in their right mind would want to live with me.”  
  
Christ, who would want him as a flatmate? Sherlock wasn’t going to stop playing the violin at midnight, and he wouldn’t stand for someone trying to make him _normal_ , he’s had enough of that, thank you very much. (getting poked and prodded at in rooms with pastel coloured walls, all the _diagnosing,_ the questions, the counsellors, his concerned parents)

Whoever would be brave enough to share a flat with him would inevitably find something repulsive enough about him, however indulgent they were. There would always be sheep guts in the microwave, brain matter in the sink, chemicals on his dining table. Sherlock doesn’t have time for birthdays, anniversaries, “night out”s, all the things that would undoubtedly be expected of him. 

Besides, Sherlock is a freak, and weird, and selfish. Utterly unsuited to cohabitation. He’d drive them mad and they’d leave, and he’d be alone; right back where he started. Sherlock imagines going through all of that; the effort, the _compromises,_ the trying-to-be-normal/pedestrian/ _dull_ just to get someone to stay (for once) and then having all of the effort wasted because Sherlock just isn’t the _right_ kind of person to stay with; and _why_ would anyone do that, why would _anyone_ put themselves through that.  
  
“I dunno, what if you found someone as clever as you.” 

Sherlock smirks at his bacteria sample. Clever as _him?_ Doubtful.  
  
Well meaning banker, perhaps. Or maybe mike will try to foist some bookish academic on him. Someone ‘eccentric’ enough to put up with him for a few weeks, a month at most. He could accept someone who works at a hospital, or a morgue-like Molly. At least they’d be useful.  
  
“I don’t need anyone to live with me,” Sherlock finally tells him, putting an end to this ridiculous conversation, because it’s hardly going anywhere. Mike has this dull idea in his head that Sherlock is lonely, probably. He isn’t. Sherlock enjoys solitude. Being alone. “I’m fine, Mike.” He looks up, shoots Mike a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. Mike doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods anyway, wipes the crumbs from his mouth and gets up to leave. 

“I’ll look around, still,” he promises. 

Sherlock sighs, put upon. Mike is welcome to waste what limited cardio-vascular capabilities he has in running about, looking for a flatmate. Sherlock is fine. Isn’t he? It’s always been like that, _he’s_ always been like that, why change? What was the _point_?

He thinks about his clustered, chaotic flat, the furniture and boxes still piled up around each other because he doesn’t want the flat to look empty when he’s done putting them in some semblance of order. Two armchairs. Why does he even have two armchairs? One is fine. He could use the extra space for...something. He’ll figure it out. 

(Maybe he’ll just give it to Ms Hudson so he doesn’t have to think about it) 

***

  
But the universe has _such_ a sense of humour, doesn’t it? Men like John Watson don’t, as a rule, exist. 

Sherlock offers him his phone; just a little test. He doesn’t seem like the sort to go sunbathing. Ah. There it is. _Of course._ Now what message should he send from the phone? Something to intrigue him, clearly. Of course, he’s testing a hypothesis, isn’t he. It’s not as though he’d like to brush his fingertips against John’s wrist and see, just a little, if his pulse jumps at the touch-

Sherlock hasn’t felt something like this _in years,_ that bright spark of want. (It’s terrifying) 

That sudden, overwhelming need to be utterly clever and impressive. Sherlock needs to figure out how _exactly_ to hold this man’s interest, and it should be easy, shouldn’t it, because Sherlock is excellent at reading people, Sherlock can tell what they want from barely a glimpse. But if John was _easy,_ he wouldn’t be interesting, would he. If John was easy, Sherlock wouldn’t feel quite like this. 

And- ah. _Suicidal,_ he sees. Sees _teetering on the brink of depression._ Psychosomatic limp- going to get rid of that, at least. _Intelligent. Observant. Really quite fit._ Looks like a man who hasn’t really left the battlefield, and that’s to be expected, Sherlock can read the PTSD off his face. 

He walks like an old man but he’s clearly not even forty yet. That ridiculous cane is doing nothing for him. Not _broken,_ not at all, but in need of a little fixing anyway. Sherlock has seen the look in John’s eyes, reflected back at him from the mirror. 

The plan forms slowly and steadily in his head, because he can’t rush this. John isn’t an idiot, he knows that within a minute of meeting him. So Sherlock is going to have be cleverer than usual. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, it’s quite probable he’s behaved like an idiot, the whole winking and riding crop thing. Stupid, stupid stupid.

(But he’s there the next day, calls him _Mr Holmes_ and calls the flat ‘very nice indeed’ so maybe Sherlock hasn’t mucked it up entirely.)

Christ, he thinks, watching John look around the flat with a little frown between his eyes, pointing his cane at the skull and giving him a look. _That’s a skull._ He’s going to make me work for it, isn’t he. 

And he does work hard. Sherlock has never felt so off-foot before but one thing is clear: Maybe, he thinks, if I’m just dazzling enough, if I’m not a complete prat, if I can get him to like the flat and maybe see himself living there, clean it up a bit too _(finally)_ , because he likes tidiness (military man, obviously) Sherlock could get him to stick around.

He can see Stamford laughing at him in his head.

Sherlock was right though. He never _needed_ a flatmate. He could have gone on quite well, he supposes. He’s lived alone before, he would have survived. But when John sits on the armchair ands tells him that he’s _looked him up on the net,_ well. Sherlock wants him. Desperately.

***

The night doesn’t go entirely as planned, though.  
  
Is he being propositioned? Sherlock isn’t sure. He must be. John licks his lips and his eyes are darker and Christ, Sherlock hates himself for ever having touched a needle, because he could have actually pursued this. He has to remind himself that he’s not supposed to right now, he’d make a mistake for sure and John would be gone. God he wants to leap across the table and straight into his lap though. More’s the pity.  
  
(His counselor told him not to get into anything serious, even flings weren’t acceptable. Concentrate on self-improvement, he’d said. Words like _self destructive_ and _self loathing_ and _occasional episodes of spiralling_ spilled out of his mouth, settled into Sherlock’s head. He could deny them all to his last breath, but he’s always had a tendency to ruin everything good he’s ever had.)  
  
It wouldn’t be difficult. Sherlock could use all that leftover adrenaline, the man is desperate; longing for excitement. Sherlock could show him such a night, no one would be good enough for him after he’s had _him_. He could turn his head. He’s practically celibate now, but Sherlock’s a lovely shag. (used to be, at least) John would be only too willing to fall into bed with him, unpredictability arouses him.

A brush of a finger over his wrist, a calculated word whispered into his ear, he’s not sure if he’s only arousing himself with the fantasy.  
  


But there’s always a question that emerges after the fantasy: _and after that?_  
  


***  
  


Sherlock almost pisses himself when Lestrade bursts into his flat for a voluntary drug bust. He’d been doing so well so far, his mission of impress John Watson. It occurs to him to be humiliated, sobriety isn’t easy and he’s nearly killed himself in keeping away from old habits. But he’s just terrified. Stupid Lestrade. Ruining things for him.

(And this is his _home,_ everyone should have a space for themselves, but perhaps addicts don’t get the same amount of privacy as everyone else)  
  
John doesn’t run screaming in the other direction though. Not even when Sally holds up a jar of eyeballs. (Sherlock will come to learn that it takes much much more than a recovering addict as a flat mate to send John away)

“No,” John says, voice pitched low. “ _You_?”

And he’s not sure what he sees in his face- disappointment? Revulsion? Sherlock cocks his head and stares him down in lieu of saying anything, and- hang on- did John’s eyes just flick to his mouth? 

(This man was going to drive him insane)

He wants to explain things, though, because people usually build up an idea in their heads of drug addicts, and clearly Sherlock has not lived up to the image. _I’m recovering,_ he wants to stay. _I’ve been sober for two years, look at me. It’s not what you think._

But his sordid past isn’t quite the dealbreaker Sherlock had feared it would be.  
  


Interesting. 

  
  
***  
  


Because you wouldn’t shoot a cabbie for someone if you were planning to leave anyway, would you? 

Sherlock stops in the middle of explaining the suspect's characteristics to Lestrade and stares at where John is standing innocuously behind the police tape. Sherlock’s heart stops, drops down to his feet.

Crackshot, nerves of steel. _You shot a man for me._  
  
He hadn’t known, then, because when you repress things as much as he does, it can so difficult to understand emotion when it finally rears it head. Sherlock had loved him then, hadn’t even known.  
  
(The _falling in love_ bit, though. Different. Took a bit longer. Lots of stuff in the middle, some really nasty bits.)

Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest, how can he stand there so _innocently_ ? Mild mannered (army) doctor down to his sensible shoes and his military-short hair. _He’s a healer,_ he thinks. Caretaker tendencies are hardwired into his brain, he would have done it for anyone.

Would he have, though?

“You just killed a man,” he tells him, and John says, “Well he wasn’t a very nice man.” Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

In the space of a day, John has been told that his flatmate gets off on crime, could possibly be a serial killer, been asked to spy on him by a mysterious umbrella carrying man and yet when John shoots someone so coolly (for someone he’s known for less than space of twelve hours) Sherlock learns early that John trusts slowly but surely, that he’s just won the loyalty of this brilliant man, and he’s never been given anything so precious before. 

_Remarkable,_ he thinks. This man is remarkable. Sherlock doesn’t know what to call that arc of electricity down at his spine, at the realisation that this man is actually _dangerous._ Well trained, of course, carries an illegal firearm, alright- but he’s really, truly dangerous. 

Sherlock thought that _he’d_ been doing the saving, getting rid of the geezerly cane and all the _could be dangerous_ talk. But the way warmth spreads through, right down to his fingertips, he’s not entirely sure who’s saving who.

 _Go out to dinner with me,_ he almost asks, but god no, that has implications, connotations. Instead, he asks, “Dinner?” Platonic enough. Mates have dinner together. Don’t they? Sherlock has no clue. He’s never had one of those before. 

There’s something there, obviously, the way they put their heads together and giggle like that. The way John laughs so breathlessly with him, that look in his eyes when they realise this is the first secret they’re keeping together. Sherlock feels achingly desperate, and it doesn’t matter that he can’t pursue this the way he wants to, he still wants to take him out to dinner and plough him with wine and draw out that laughter again. John looked like a man who’d recently returned from looking at death and now his eyes are sparkling and he walks ramrod straight and Sherlock thinks, _I’m going to give you everything you want, I’m going to make sure you’re never bored, I’m going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you._

And maybe all of that isn’t going to involve him getting down on his knees, but’s it fine. It’s all fine.

_You’re going to drive me mad with longing, aren’t you?_

***

He takes him to a hole in the wall place because he has to continue being exciting, and all that.

Red wine always makes him tipsier than usual and he finds himself saying, the words slurring a bit. “You know, I’ve got to ask. Do you always shoot cabbies for people you barely you know?”  
  


John meets his gaze over the rim of his glass, and there’s something there that Sherlock can’t pin down. “Not for everyone,” he says, meaningfully, pointedly, his smile all teeth.

Sherlock feels faint. He’s flirting. Is he? Sherlock has to backpedal, get out of the hole he’s dug himself into.

“You should come home with me tonight,” _Oh god no, that’s the exact opposite of what he should be doing._

John’s eyes widen and he blinks at him. “Er-“

“I mean, 221B’s closer, it’s late,” he scrambles for words. “And you’ll be staying there anyway. I mean- well, I’m assuming. Ms Hudson’s already put up the bed-“ Christ, he’s not being clever and sexy at _all,_ he’s blabbering like an idiot-

“I’ll take the flat,” John says quickly, blessedly, his palm cups Sherlock’s hand. Warm. 

“Oh,” Sherlock stops. “Well. That’s. Good. Um. Yeah, that’s great. Okay then. Settled.”

John nods slowly, a grin stretching across his lovely face. “Yep. Settled.” 

***

Only a fool wouldn’t listen to his doctor, but well, he has things to _say_ to Lestrade. So he goes off the next morning, swirling his coat dramatically over his shoulders like he’s so wont to do, and meets him in his office to do the tedious paperwork. John is already awake, Sherlock finds him sitting in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea and a newspaper. He looks very at home there.

“D’you want a cup?” he asks, looking up at him. Sherlock stares at him for a moment before swallowing and straightening his shirt collar. His t-shirt is all soft and wrinkled on one side.

“No,” he says quickly, before he loses all sense of self control and flings himself into John’s lap. “I have errands to run. Don’t wait up.”

(He needs a cigarette once he’s out on the street. This. He was going to have to learn to control this.)

***  
  
“I know it amuses you greatly to have known me during my more volatile years, but I would appreciate it if you kept the more sordid details of our acquaintance to yourself.” Sherlock puts down the pen he’d been writing with on the table and looks up to fix Lestrade with, what he hopes, is a suitably stern look.

Lestrade’s eyes search his face, from across the table, for the slimmest second. He’s not a complete idiot, he knows exactly what Sherlock is referring to. Lestrade had been the one pinning him over the hood of his police car, after all. Sherlock snarling and spitting at him like a feral cat, his thin wrists being clasped into what seemed, then, like an unnecessarily tight pair of handcuffs. He’d been completely off his tits, but he still managed to piss Lestrade off even more when he told him that his wife was cheating on him.  
  


Finally, an ear splitting grin breaks across his face . “You like him.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Juvenile, Gavin. He’s my flat mate . Ergo he has to be tolerable. I wouldn’t have wanted to live with him otherwise.”  
  
“Rubbish. You actually like him. As a person.”  
  
“I find him convenient. He helps me pay my bills,” Sherlock spins a paperweight under his fingers. “Are we done?”

Lestrade shrugs. “Yeah. Yeah. We’re done. Thank you. This was...unexpectedly professional of you.”

“I’m professional,” Sherlock defends, standing up, pulling on his coat and scarf. “And remember what I said.”

“My lips are sealed,” Lestrade mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the keys. “But you know, I don’t think he’d care. If he knew. Didn’t seem to care when we did that drugs bust.”

“He’s more tolerant than most, I suppose. But everyone cares, eventually. Goodbye.”

***

  
And John is a _practical_ man, not fussy at all. It would be a shame if he left over something stupid like finances. So he lets him have his card because it’s just money, after all. He takes the well paying cases even though they’re dull as fuck, so that John is reassured that there’s cash coming in. John deserves _some_ kind of stability, he imagines. Living with Sherlock doesn’t exactly make his life predictable. 

But he likes it, doesn’t it- he likes it when Sherlock interrupts him at work, when he texts him incessantly, when he brings home something vaguely toxic to experiment on. John _pretends,_ sure, but John wants Sherlock to keep him on his toes, he wants Sherlock to fling whatever issue of BMJ he’s reading out of his hands and say _Put on your coat, we have a case._

***

  
Alright, he thinks. I can do this. So what if I want John to bugger me silly over this dining table. It’s just transport, it’ll fade.  
  
(It doesn’t)

***

  
  
Except if it was just physical sensation that Sherlock craved, this would have been much easier. Of course he can read the man’s bisexual tendencies right in his military past. Sherlock might be a novice in the matters of the heart but if he truly wanted to seduce John into his bed it wouldn’t be difficult at all. He tries it, little experiments, here and there. Not too often so that John figures out what he’s doing but just a bit, just to gauge his reaction.  
  
Working hypothesis: John has considered shagging him, several times.  
  
The lip licking should be enough indication. John seems very partial to his mouth as well. Positive signs of arousal whenever he wears that purple shirt, quick glancing away when Sherlock bends down to pick up something and looks behind himself when he’s back on his feet.

It becomes especially evident, of course, during the course of a case.

Of course, stake outs in cramped spaces were common in his line of work. Adding another person to the equation- infinitely ~~better~~ worse. There’s little wiggling room for either of them, plastered as they are to either side of the closet. In a few minutes, the suspect is going to enter the room and take out a key from a secret compartment under the bed. Well, at least Sherlock thinks so, and Sherlock is (usually) always right. 

“Sherlock, how much _longer-_ ” John starts to complain, and Sherlock shushes him, pressing a finger to his lips. _John’s_ , that is. It’s instinctual. He barely has a moment to admire the texture of John’s slightly chapped mouth before he pulls his hand away. 

“Patience, John. It’s a virtue, from what I understand.” His voice wavers a bit at the end.

“Yeah,” John breathes out. “I’m not feeling particularly virtuous right now.”

Sherlock frowns, and because he’s six inches taller than John he has to bend his neck to frown at him properly. “Why would you-”

Oh. Sherlock stills, and a heavy breath escapes his mouth, ruffles the top of John’s head. His hair’s longer now, grown out from his military cut to fall in soft little waves. Sherlock is always aching to brush his fingers through it.

“Perfectly natural response to simulation,” he finally says, swallowing. 

“Yeah, thanks, I _am_ a doctor, you know.” John leans his head back against the wall. “Just gonna wait it out.”

Ah. Yes. Given enough time and enough concentration on un-arousing thoughts, John's erection should wilt. Whatever brought it on in the first place? Was it simply the cramped space, the proximity to his body, or was it something about _him-_

No. Probably not. Like he said. Normal response to simulation. It could happened with anyone. Molly. Donavan, perhaps. The cashier with the nose ring at Tesco’s. 

Sherlock considers what would be appropriate at this moment. Cupping his hips forward to meet John’s hardness- no, not that. Would be nice, though, pinning John against the wall with the weight of his body. He could hang his coat around the two of them, hide them from sight, grind into him until John is gasping into his mouth-

No. No. _Not_ that.

“Should I...turn around?” he asks, innocently. John’s cheeks are so pink they’re glowing in the dark. Lovely, that. He screws his eyes shut, shakes his head resolutely. 

“No. Nope. That would be much worse.”

(In the fantasy he touches himself to, later that night, Sherlock cocks his head coquettishly and says _can’t imagine why,_ and John takes the bait- John grabs him by the hair and turns him around, grinding his face against the opposite end of that damn closet and John shifts his hips forward until Sherlock can feel him properly, right underneath the crease of his arse, and John bites the back of his neck and engages in frottage until he comes all over Sherlock’s bespoke trousers.)

But right now, Sherlock tries hard not to breathe and attempts to put as much space between them as he can. Because Sherlock is human _too,_ Christ, and his hips are trembling with the effort not to _just-_

And suddenly there’s a _click,_ both of them freeze. The case. The _case._ Trust John to make him forget why they were practically stuck to each other in this tiny closet. 

He decides to ignore that, for now, in favor of peering through the little crack between the doors. He can hear John take a soft breath of relief, presumably because Sherlock’s crotch is now angled away from his. 

“Is it him?”

Sherlock purses his lips together and nods.

Solve the case. That’s what he’s here for, and it’s what John expects him to do, as well. John is going to try and suppress this odd, awkward memory and laugh it off if it’s ever inadvertently brought up. 

He twists towards John and makes a gesture with his hand. _Gun?_

John nods slowly and slips it out from the waistband of his jeans. 

And- _oh,_ John’s wolfish grin is contagious, because he finds himself smiling right back at him.

He doesn’t have much else, but he does have this, at least. 

***


	2. your perfect offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s nice, isn’t it- having an arrangement with someone. Knowing someone would be waiting for you at home. Having someone to get home to, full stop.

> _Maybe there's a God above_  
>  _But all I've ever learned from love_  
>  _Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya_

Physical attraction from John’s end is perfectly easy to understand. Sherlock is aware that he is attractive- as soon as the gangly awkwardness of his youth had faded and his body took on a more willowy, graceful form, it was clear to him that there were _other_ ways of gaining evidence, questioning suspects, witnesses. And sometimes people have it all wrong, it’s not really _how_ you look, after all, but _how_ you use what you have. 

So, of course, the point being, that it’s not terribly surprising that John is attracted to him. But there’s something else there, that Sherlock _doesn’t_ quite understand. 

Why John stays up with him, sometimes, when Sherlock can’t sleep. Just sitting in his chair, reading, or watching the telly while it’s turned on low. Or why John painstakingly stitches Sherlock’s cuts even though taking him to an A&E would be so much easier. Or why John makes him tea when he’s being stroppy and unpleasant and anyone in their right mind would want to leave him alone.

***

It’s late, past midnight, probably. Sherlock comes home that night after having solved a case; not quite interesting, in the end. A six and a half, if he’s being generous. John wouldn’t have enjoyed it, anyway. (Or he might have. Sherlock wouldn’t know, because John wasn’t there. He can only _guess_ ) 

He expects to find the sitting room empty, the fire out. John has work tomorrow. He goes to sleep early on weeknights, except on the rare occasions when he’s quietly giving Sherlock company. Instead, he finds John sprawled on the sofa, the television remote perched precariously on his stomach, the television on and and the fire down to its last embers (must have been lit for a while, then)

John startles awake when Sherlock shuts the door behind himself, putting the keys on the nearest surface.

“Wha-oh. Hey, Sherlock,” he yawns, rubbing the heel of one hand into his eye. Predictably, the remote falls to the floor. Sherlock pulls the scarf from his neck and takes off his coat, hangs it behind the door. John looks unbearably _soft_ when he wakes up, and he doesn’t get to see it, too often. He comes downstairs dressed and combed and perfectly put together on most mornings. But Sherlock doesn’t want to look too long, because then he’ll be staring. 

(John is used to the staring by now, though. So used to it, in fact, that he _jokes_ about it.

 _Like what you see,_ he’d asked, once. Smirking over the rim of his teacup. Sherlock hadn’t even been aware of what he was doing. John had come downstairs for breakfast and he still smelled like last night’s date and Sherlock couldn’t help but _look,_ because he wonders, doesn’t he, what they did, did he buy her flowers, did they go to that rubbish Italian place that John likes so much, did they grope each other in the cab like teenagers-

 _You missed a spot,_ Sherlock had pointed out instead. _You shouldn’t use that cheap razor._ )

Because it’s not very _platonic,_ is it. Staring. Wondering. ~~Fantasising about sucking John off in the backseat of a cab~~ )

“Evening,” Sherlock answers. “Is there any tea.”

 _“Tea?”_ John’s eyes widen and he gets up from his supine position, suddenly glaring at Sherlock. “Tea. You mad git. You do realise you’ve been gone for, what, six hours, and I had no idea where you were?”

Sherlock stares at him. He was just about to sit down on his armchair, but he stills instead. “I was on a case.”

“ _Yeah,_ figured that much out for myself, actually.”

“You’re upset. Why are you upset?” Sherlock cocks his head and looks at him carefully. He’s somehow angered John- but why? Is he upset that Sherlock hadn’t taken him along on the case? But he’d asked. He’d sent him a text. John hadn’t responded. He’d assumed John was busy with his boring GP job, prescribing medicine for strep throat and the flu. John closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly.

“Jesus. Okay, look, I know we haven’t lived together that long and it’s not like I’m telling you what to do, or anything. It’s just that I know you faff off on dangerous cases alone and I’ve _been_ there on most of them, so I know what it’s like. We’ve almost gotten killed plenty of times. So er. Yeah. I just think that if you could, I don’t know, let me know where you are so I don’t worry you’ve been shot or something. Or fallen into a ditch. Or been kidnapped.”

John isn’t meeting his gaze. He’s looking at the floor and he’s rubbing the back of his neck- anxiety? Nervousness? Sherlock feels strangely warm. He swallows.

“I was in Battersea.”

“That’s great. But I mean _before_ you go there, not once you’re home.”

Sherlock’s legs feel shaky, so he finally sits down. John was worried about him. Worried. About _him._ It’s a legitimate concern, Sherlock _has_ been kidnapped. And he’s fallen into a ditch several times. He’s never really been worried about these things himself, quite natural for dangerous things to happen to him, in his line of work. 

“Yeah. So. Anyway. You hungry? I made dinner.” John gets up from the sofa, stretches a bit. Quick change of subject. Why? Sherlock is still trying to figure out how to tell John that he’s not used to this kind of thing; he’s been alone for so long he seems to have forgotten that people expect certain things from their...cohabiting partner? Flatmate. He’s John’s flatmate. (nothing more) But even though he is John’s just-a-flatmate, John seems to be concerned about his whereabouts. Because he doesn’t want him to be kidnapped. Well.It _would_ be inconvenient. John wouldn’t be able to afford the rent on his own if something were to happen to him. He’d be out of a place to live. So of course he’d want Sherlock to stay alive, and all that.

John is looking at him expectantly. Had he said something? _Oh!_ “Yes,” he says, quickly. “Yes. I’ll eat. The thing. That you made.”

_Smooth._

He’s not particularly hungry, but it’s worth it, just to see that tiny smile of satisfaction on John’s face. He seems to derive a great deal of pleasure from providing him with nourishment, especially when it’s something he’s cooked. He’s not that great, honestly; Sherlock could probably make a better spaghetti Bolognese (cooking. Just chemistry, isn’t it?) but he’d still prefer to eat John’s.

(No one’s cooked for him before, except Mummy. Occasionally Ms. Hudson, who is practically a second mother anyway. But his appreciation for John's cooking deviates in a very specific way.)

Sherlock shifts to the sofa, toeing off his shoes and bringing his knees close to his chest. He can hear John rummaging around in the kitchen for plates. The flat has gotten so much _louder_ since John’s moved in. It’s hard to imagine that it used to be so silent at one point of time. Sometimes Sherlock used to make things explode just to make it stop. 

John singing to himself when he does the laundry. (Awful sense of rhythm) Arguing with his sister on the phone (only once). Rummaging for whisky in the kitchen at 3 am because he can’t sleep. (Sherlock played the violin for him, then. He’d thought it would help. John probably thought he was simply making a racket. Typical Sherlock. Inconsiderate. Rude. Sherlock doesn't mind. Better than being boring.) 

“I did text you,” Sherlock informs him, when John comes into the sitting room carrying two plates.

“Hm?” John puts a plate in front of Sherlock, and then sits down next to him. Sherlock hugs his knees closer, not looking at John, or the food, or even the telly, even though his eyes are on the screen.

“You said you wanted me to tell you. I did. You didn’t reply. I assumed you were busy.”

He can feel John’s gaze on him for a few seconds. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’s fine. Forget about it.”

Silence descends on them both. Sherlock doesn’t touch his food. He watches from the corner of his eye as John crosses one foot over the other and swirls spaghetti around his fork. The line of his shoulders is tense, and there’s clearly something intentional about the way he’s watching the stupid bird documentary so intensely.

Damn it.

“I haven’t lived with anyone for a while,” he finally mutters. “Shared a flat for a while with someone in Tottenham. Didn’t last long, and we didn’t particularly care about each other. I hardly knew where he was half the time.” (He’d been living with his dealer, but best not tell John that) “So,” he sniffs self consciously. “If I didn’t tell you, it’s because I simply thought you wouldn’t be concerned.”

He can hear the sound of steel against ceramic as John puts his fork down on the empty plate. “We live together. Of course I’d be concerned.”

Sherlock’s gut twists. “Well,” he says quietly, disentangling his limbs and leaning back against the sofa. He finally turns his head to look at John. “Now I know.”

 _Of course_ he’d be concerned. Like Sherlock is the stupid one, for thinking otherwise. Like it’s so obvious John would care. Why, though? Clearly Sherlock has missed something. He’ll have to think about it later. It’s difficult to string facts together right now, what with John sitting so close to him, in his rumpled jumper and his fell-asleep-on-the-armchair hair. The way he crosses one leg over the other as he eats, his maroon socks. 

John’s mouth turns up in a small smile. “You’ll tell me, then? Just. I don’t know. A text to confirm if you’re alive or dead would be enough.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Don’t think so. Last week that robber in Bristol hit you in the head and you were bleeding out for a quarter of an hour before I got to you. I’m being perfectly reasonable.”

“Yes, _thank you,_ I remember.” 

Sherlock does his best to sound stroppy and put upon; after all, it wouldn’t do for John to know that all of this worry on his end is rather...well...It’s nice, isn’t it- having an arrangement with someone. Knowing someone would be waiting for you at home. Having someone to get home to, full stop.

(John makes him far too maudlin)

He finally reaches for his plate; he finds he’s rather hungry after all. He can feel John watch from the corner of his eye. Ah. He’s pleased. It takes so little to make John happy. 

John’s finished off his own dinner ; he’s nursing a beer currently, taking a sip every few seconds. The documentary is terribly boring; but telly _is_ boring. Sometimes John will make him watch stupid action films when they have nothing on and Sherlock’s dying for something to _do._ They’re all equally pitiful. Sherlock would dread those evenings, except for the fact that they’re one of those pesky, ritual-type things that seem to have been added to their haphazard routine. It would feel odd, if they didn’t have those boring watching-a-burning-car-crash nights. They’re pleasant in their own way. They have the added benefit of reminding Sherlock he doesn’t live alone anymore. 

“When was the last time you lived with someone?”

Sherlock stills in the process of eating another mouthful of pasta. Why would he- oh. He glances at John, shoulders and jaw relaxed, his breathing is steady. Just making conversation. Probably. Sherlock lowers his plate.

“Tottenham, six years ago. Second year of university before that.”

(Could barely afford the flat. Had to find other ways to pay. Probably best to leave out the sordid details)

Neither of them are the most pleasant of memories to recall, but John has questions. Needs must. 

“Did you drive them round the bend, then?” John’s mouth pulls into a smirk. Sherlock feels his own lips twitch. _More than you know,_ he wants to say. Sherlock was quite universally disliked, unless he was being summoned for a casual fuck, or to write someone else’s assignment. Or drugs. The admiring glances he’d received at the beginning of his first year had quickly morphed into revulsion the moment he’d opened his mouth. Didn’t matter though. It worked well in his favour. He preferred being avoided. 

“You’ve met me. I’ll leave you to your deductions.” 

And then, because he’s feeling a little bold, he swipes John’s beer from his hand and takes a sip himself. He resists the temptation to make a face; he detests the taste of beer. Although, there’s the fact that John’s mouth has been on the rim. His saliva. Sherlock takes another sip and puts the bottle back on the table. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

When John doesn’t say anything for a few seconds he glances back at him to gauge his reaction, but John’s eyes are trained on the bottle. It’s difficult to notice because the flat is half lit anyway but his cheeks look oddly flushed. Perhaps John shouldn’t drink so much beer in the evenings. After another moment he blinks several times as if to snap himself out of something and sniffs loudly, turning away. 

“Must have been difficult for you, though.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. Change of pace from John’s earlier assumption that Sherlock was equally annoying to live with then as he is now. He finds a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Interesting. The general consensus is that I was the horror to live with.”

“Yeah, alright, a little bit, sure,” John shrugs. “But you were living with that wanker, Wilkes. I wouldn’t blame you if you were, you know. A horror.” 

Sherlock swallows, trying not to look at John. “He lived on a completely different floor,” he lies smoothly. “I hardly ever saw him.” He doesn’t think it would be wise to agree with John, that Wilkes pursued him on a regular basis for at least two of the three things, sometimes all three at once. In fact, he doesn’t want to think about him at all. It had been a mistake to bring John to the bank in the first place. He’d assumed the years would have made Seb slightly more tolerable. Ah well. Sherlock is, after all, terrible at human nature. Perhaps some people _don’t_ change.

~~_We all hated him_ ~~

John must read something from his voice, because he doesn’t pursue the topic further. Sherlock regrets this. It had been nice, talking. He does abhor meaningless chatter but he hadn’t seen John the entire day and he’d...missed him. Terribly. But that’s trite, isn’t it, so he tells himself that John’s absence is inconvenient. He’s supposed to be there, taking notes for his blog and making impressed noises when Sherlock does something clever. He’s supposed to be there so Sherlock can bend proactively over evidence and watch as John gets flustered.

Like he said. _Inconvenient._

So he eats the rest of his meal in silence, and while he’s a little disappointed (Sherlock suddenly feels like telling John about the case, even though it was nothing special. But John will ask questions, Sherlock will roll his eyes and tell John he’s the world’s most enormous idiot but he’ll answer anyway, and then John will write all about it in his blog post and romanticise it and make it sound far more interesting than it was) John doesn’t get up. He sits there next to him, for the rest of the predictably dull documentary, their thighs almost touching.

He hates it, that barest bit of distance between them. It would be so simple to close it, put his head on John’s shoulder. Doze off there, plastered to his side, breathing in the scent of wool and John’s preferred fabric softener. 

***

“You know, I never apologized.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his notes, but he does still his pen and make a vaguely interested noise. “For what?”

“Saying I was your colleague. That was...stupid. I don’t know why I said that.”

Sherlock frowns. John is leaning against the sink, his jumper sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Oh. Washing dishes. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed. His skin is still wet, stray droplets caught in the sparse, sandy hair on his arms. 

For a moment he doesn’t register what John has said, because he was distracted by John’s forearms. He reluctantly shifts his gaze upwards. “Hm?”

“Telling Wilkes I was your colleague. That day, at the bank. D’you remember?”

Oh. 

“We do work together,” Sherlock replies, without missing a beat. “Not technically inaccurate.”

 _Does he remember,_ honestly. How could he forget? Sherlock _had_ planned to delete that tiny incident, but he must not have, because he clearly recalls it with alarming clarity. 

He _particularly_ recalls Seb’s stupid, nasty smirk. John’s palpable awkwardness. His own avoidable idiocy. 

“We also live together, occasionally get locked in freezers together, and sometimes I wash your pants. I think we’re more than colleagues.”

Sherlock stills. He can feel an unexplainable warmth bloom in his body.

More than colleagues. Does that mean something? It must mean something. Sherlock is unsure of where these definitions begin and end, or if there are any definitions at all. He is happy to be John’s mad flat mate, his colleague, his partner. He is happy to be whatever John wants to call him, as long as it gives him an interesting enough role for John to stay. (Sherlock is his provider-of-excitement, his adrenaline rush, the thing that keeps his boredom at bay- he fulfils a _need_ , then- and perhaps, yes, that means he _is_ more than a colleague)

“An accurate summation,” he manages. “What would you call us then?”

A tiny smile plays at the corner of John’s mouth as he slips the dish towel from his shoulder and wipes his hands with it. There’s no tan line there anymore.

“Um, friends, I suppose. Aren’t we?” John cocks his head as he looks at him, all boyish charm and expectant gaze. Sherlock stares at him, and something expands in his chest like a hot air balloon.

But. But. But I don’t-

He blinks a few times.

I don’t _have_ friends, he wants to say. I’ve never had… “friends”.

Acquaintances. Conveniences. Clients. 

(Friend: _Synonyms:_ companion, boon companion, bosom friend, best friend, close friend, intimate, confidante, confidant, familiar, soul mate,, second self, playmate, playfellow, classmate, schoolmate, workmate, ally, comrade, associate-)

Sherlock swallows thickly and puts down his pen. What was he even making notes on? He can’t remember. His chest feels so tight it’s difficult to breathe. Perhaps he’s having a heart attack.

“I. Um. I-” he closes his eyes. “I don’t really-”

John looks amused. “You alright there, Spock?”

“What? Who is that? Never mind, I don’t want to know.” 

“Feels good to be wanted,” John sighs, and turns around to face the sink again. Is John going to do something with the dishes? How long is he going to wash them? Sherlock is currently having a crisis of speech and John wants to wash the dishes. 

~~_Friend seems a rather paltry word to use, seeing as I am terribly fond of you and I want you in ways that friends don’t want each other but that’s fine, because this is more than I could have imagined and no one’s ever wanted to be my friend before it’s a miracle you can stand me people think I’m a freak and for some reason you don’t no idea why you’re rather remarkable John Watson and I really-_ ~~

“Never had friends,” Sherlock finally mutters, and it comes out sounding irritable. He should leave before he says anything stupid. He pushes his chair away from the table and gets up. “Waste of time.”

John turns to look at him, brow raised. Sherlock wants to stab himself.

“I mean- it _was._ I thought it was. It’s not. I mean _you’re_ not-”

“I’m really glad you don’t think I’m a waste of time, mate.”

“Yes. Well. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, John.”

He can hear John chuckle under his breath. “Night, Sherlock.”

He curses himself all the way upstairs. John doesn’t have to know the entire depth of his attachment but Sherlock feels like it’s important for him to know that Sherlock considers him a friend as well. That he values him. That sometimes Sherlock feels like slipping his hand into his when they walk down the street together. Alright, maybe not that last bit.

But it’s fine. Sherlock is not the best at expressing himself. He might have said something odd and unacceptable, and made it worse. 

He can hear John humming to himself while he puts the dishes back in the cabinet.

***

John is an idiot. John is going to drive him _mad._

He’s never met a man so far back in the closet. Sherlock doubts he’s ever going to see the light of day. And there’s the never-ending cycle of women, flitting back and forth from the flat, (the marketing consultant, the one with the cats, the divorcee who offered Sherlock marijuana and made John furious that was lovely) so either Sherlock’s misread everything (it’s possible that his attraction has made him fanciful) and John is Not Gay, as he’s already said several times. Or it’s simply Sherlock that John finds absolutely repulsive.

And well, maybe it’s for the better. Best to keep things as they are. Why ruin a perfectly good arrangement? 

The appropriate threshold for starting a ‘relationship’ after recovery comes and goes. Sherlock keeps his mouth shut. There’s not much else he can do when he comes home one night and can hear the telltale sound of bed springs and female moaning. 

Sherlock stands in the living room, still in his coat, and listens. It’s not particularly loud, but he has excellent hearing and the walls are thin. _Creak, creak,_ goes the bed. And then the faintest _ah, ah, ah._ More mumbling. Gasping. What could she possibly be saying? _Harder. Harder._

Why does John need directions anyway? Sherlock’s quite sure he would do an admirable job without them.

_Creak, creak._

Sherlock would like to shove needles in his ears.

Although, to be fair, he wasn’t supposed to be home tonight. He’d told John as much. _Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back tomorrow._ John hadn’t asked him where he was going. And now the reason is clear. He rips his scarf off, his coat, throws them on the sofa. And then he throws them back on, because he can’t possibly stay here, listening to - _this._ Knowing that upstairs, John is, John is-

But this is _his_ flat. Why should he go anywhere? Sherlock takes off his coat and scarf again, and marches to his bedroom. Exactly. His flat. He doesn’t care if John is fornicating with some awful woman upstairs. Sherlock is going to stay, right _here._

Perhaps they should have discussed this beforehand, he thinks. There must be some kind of etiquette about this and of course Sherlock doesn’t give two _fucks_ about etiquette but he doesn’t want some _woman_ here either, spreading the scent of her perfume everywhere and leaving behind her knickers. 

He doesn’t want anyone here, except him and John. 

This is his fault. He got rid of John’s stupid old-man-cane and his limp and now the man is slick and confident again, his libido up and roaring. Sherlock made him remember that life was _good,_ that he was interesting and handsome and women liked him, and why shouldn’t he lay on the charm now, he used to be good at it. Oh Sherlock knows _all_ about Three-Continents-Watson, he’s read the emails from his old army pals.

But he hadn’t really considered how real it was, before now. Women were mentioned in passing. Sherlock insulted them, interrupted his dates. But it’s different this time. John's preferences are painfully clear and real. 

***

Sherlock lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He can’t sleep. He has earplugs, he could put them in. He could rush upstairs and bang on the door and say _Do be quiet, I’m trying to sleep._ John is always nagging Sherlock about sleep. Nagging to the point of obsession. Why are you so concerned about my sleep cycle, John? I’m a slave to the circadian rhythm, the same as you are.

Of course, I can’t sleep now because you’re fucking some random woman’s brains out and _I have to listen to it._

Sherlock screws his eyes shut, turns over, attempts to smother himself with his pillow.

Creaking graduates to thumping. 

Will they ever finish? John can’t possibly last this long. Or perhaps they have finished, and this is another one of several rounds.

What does he like, when he’s with someone, like that? The thought enters his head, sneaks in, more like, and he’s forbidden himself from thinking that way because it does nothing but make him _want,_ and Sherlock is so tired, of wanting. But he can hear, and she sounds louder here, and she sounds _ecstatic,_ really. Sherlock swallows, feeling warm. He throws the covers off his body. 

What does he like? Sherlock can guess, make assumptions. _Deduce._ Going by his porn history John is mostly vanilla, with perhaps a slight inclination towards mild bondage, the occasional spanking. Did they do that, he wonders. Did he take her over his knee, before, or-

This is bad. Sherlock covers his face with his hands and tries to think of anything else. _Anything else._

(he’d come home by tube, who was that man across from him- right, yes, university professor, going by the spectacles and the tiny chemical burns on his hands, although that was a deduction from experience, not logic, he has the same- and, one daughter, two sons- stickers on his briefcase- she can’t be more than five, what else, right, yes, gold watch, gift from a mistress, he’s cheating on his wife, with the- the-)

Sherlock can extrapolate from a fixed point, though. John’s tastes are fairly pedestrian. He’d probably like to take someone on their back. Oral beforehand, John does not strike him as a selfish lover. 

_How would you know, though-_ a nasty voice says.

(the woman he’d passed on the street yesterday, middle aged, two dogs, recently remarried, her wife is a chef in Soho, and she used to be a gymnast in university but for the _life of him_ Sherlock can’t remember how he figured that out-)

But John could be convinced, could’t he. If Sherlock bent over the dining table just right, if he implied it, if he played his cards right, John might see the benefits of sliding up behind him, pulling his trousers down just far enough that he can cup his hands around his hips and pull, and push- _in-_

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Sherlock slides his hand down to his thigh. His fingers tremble, and he’s straining against the front of his pyjamas. He brushes his fingers over himself, just lightly, and _oh god,_ his hips jerk against his hand. 

He looks so _gentlemanly_ , doesn’t he, his John. Mild mannered and polite and he’s _such a nice young man,_ Ms Hudson says, when he opens the door for her, carries her things.

But Sherlock has seen John with a gun, the way he wraps his fingers around it with competent familiarity. The way his eyes darken when he grabs a criminal in a chokehold or sprains a wrist to disarm them. Sherlock has seen him take down people double his size and he’s seen his dexterous fingers stitch together his wounds, and _Christ,_ no one would say he was a nice young man if they knew, if they looked, really looked, pass the fuzzy jumpers and the doctorly manner. There’s nothing interesting about _nice._ John is a good man, but he’s not _nice,_ and Sherlock loves that about him. 

(Does he throw her legs over his shoulders, or does he like them wrapped around his waist, or-)

Sherlock slips his hand under his pyjamas, grips himself. Groans. _Fuck._

One hand splayed over his back, pushing him down towards the table, Sherlock’s cheek against the wood, rubbing up against it, his skin will probably be abraded, a bit. Chemistry equipment would tickle, something would fall, shatter- _I told you to clean it up, didn’t I, Sherlock-_ a punishing hand in his hair, teeth at his neck, not biting, just there, just the _promise of,_ if he’s good enough John will do it, mark him like he wants, and Sherlock will be good, he’ll be very, very good;

 _Harder. Harder,_ he’d say. And beg, pitch his voice high and needy and John’s fingers would dig into his hips and his teeth might sink into his shoulder, and Sherlock can hear his heavy breathing in his ear, the wet, obscene sound of _fucking-_

He works his hand feverishly over himself, tries not to make a sound, although that _woman_ is so loud he doubts anyone would hear him, anyway.

Please, John. Please. Please please please

Fingers around his throat, not tight enough to restrict his breathing, but hard enough that Sherlock knows he’s pinned under John’s weight with nowhere to go and nothing to do except stand there and _take it._

“ _Fuck,_ ” he hisses, and “ _John-”_ before he comes, ejaculating all over his hand, his pyjamas, the bedsheets too, probably.

Several long moments pass before the roaring in his ears is gone and his heart is no longer thumping against his chest. And, as Sherlock strains to listen- there is no more thumping in general. Ah. Pity. If he’d been very quiet he might have even managed to hear what John sounds like during orgasm. 

He lies there, boneless and limp, sprawled on his back in his semen-covered pyjamas, his soiled bedsheets. He wonders what John would think if he knew that Sherlock had just touched himself to the thought of him. Probably wouldn’t think he was married to his work _then._ It’s fine, though. He doesn’t want John to think of him that way. Sherlock benefits from John’s perception of him as being cold and untouchable. Asexual,in a manner of speaking. He hasn’t shagged anyone in well over four years, despite desire flooding his every waking moment ever since John moved in. Maintaining the image. 

He hasn’t brought up the topic since that disastrous conversation at Angelo’s, so John must have made his assumptions. Sherlock is above it all, these pesky needs of the flesh. (But sex and romance are different things, are they not? Even Sherlock knows that. Does John think Sherlock is incapable of affection as well? The thought makes him feel ill, so he deletes it.)

What _would_ he do, though. If Sherlock did the same. Brought someone home. Fucked them in his bedroom. Met John the next morning, rumpled and covered in marks. A slight limp. He’d wince a bit when he sat down, and then blush when John would glance at him curiously. 

Sherlock sighs. John would assume it was for a case. He’s seen him flirt with witnesses, so there’s precedent. 

He rolls out of his bed, feeling heavy and exhausted. Slips out of his filthy pyjamas and throws on new ones. Are they sleeping next to each other now? John’s date curled up against him, his chest, their legs slotted together? People do that, he knows. Of course, he isn’t familiar with the act. Sex for him has always been quick and perfunctory, and none of that afterglow nonsense once they were done. Besides, Sherlock has never felt the need to stay with someone after climax was over and done with.

But John is different. Normal, unlike him. Or at least better at maintaining the facade of normalcy. Sherlock isn’t. Sherlock’s otherness bleeds through and makes him stand out in the worst of ways. 

But John has nightmares. Vivid dreams where he lashes out and grunts gibberish in foreign languages. He wouldn’t tell her, though. He’d let her burrow into his chest, stroke her hair, and he’d pretend to be asleep. 

Perhaps Sherlock isn’t the only one in this flat trying to be something he isn’t.

***

“I thought you were on a case,” John tells him sheepishly the next morning, just after she’s left. 

(He’d seen her rushing downstairs, John trailing after her to say goodbye. Hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing last night’s rumpled clothes, Sherlock is close enough to see the purple bruise high up on her neck. Close enough to watch John kiss her at the door. 

_You must be Sherlock. We should catch up next time, John’s told me an awful lot about you._

Doubtful. Sherlock’s estimate is that there won’t be a next time. Two weeks, max.

“John talks about little else,” he tells her, smiling.

He is, presumably, the most interesting thing in his life. He tries very hard at it, after all.)

Sherlock wants to glare at him, but he finds that last night’s jealous fury has vanished upon being confronted with John’s pink cheeks and mussed hair. He’s embarrassed. _Well, he should be,_ Sherlock thinks to himself snidely. _She seems awful._ “I didn’t mean to- well, if you don’t want me to bring women back to the flat, it’s fine.”

There’s a pale mark at the junction of neck and shoulder. Tiny and pink and right about the size of her mouth. 

“I think that’s for the best,” Sherlock says flatly. Then he put his half-empty cup on the sink, and shuts himself in his bedroom for the rest of the day. John can assume what he likes. John is welcome to shag as many women as he wants but Sherlock would rather he not do it here. He knows he is woefully inadequate to provide John with the things that he needs but he thinks it’s fair that he doesn’t want to see visual confirmation of it. 

Note to self: Advisable _not_ to fancy your fiercely heterosexual flatmate.

(Too late.)


	3. for all to see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful, is the unspoken caveat. Best to keep the grit off the lens.

> _And I've seen your flag on the marble arch  
>  And love is not a victory march_

It makes his heart stutter and collapse in on itself when John grabs Moriarty and tells him to make a run for it. Really, John? _Really?_ You would do that for me? Jesus. Sherlock doesn’t deserve his goodness, his fierce loyalty. 

“I wouldn’t have run, you know,” Sherlock finds it impossible not to say afterwards. It leaves his mouth in a rush of breath, the words almost tangling together. “You really think I would have left you here?”

John is still on the ground, back against the wall, knees bent. He glances at him quickly before shrugging. “Yeah, well, at least one of us would have survived.”

Sherlock feels ill at the very thought of losing John. He hates the way he says it, so _flippantly_ like it’s nothing of consequence, getting blown to bits instead of Sherlock. 

“ _Sentiment,_ ” he says, like it’s a dirty word, because anything else would be too much, he’d give too much away. What is he supposed to do with this, this enormous value that John has put on his life by being willing to sacrifice his own for him? 

(He stutters and stammers and calls it ‘good’ because what other words can he use?)

John snorts. “Sentiment? Because I didn’t want you to get blown up?”

“ _You’d_ have gotten blown up,” Sherlock suddenly bites out. “Is that what you think? That I would run and leave you there with him, so that _you_ could die?” He wants to grab John by the shoulders, shake him until his teeth rattle because he’s being _so_ stupid, because Sherlock can’t have him putting himself in front of bullets like this- because if he carries on this way there will _be_ no John for him to protect.

 _I can’t have you dying on me,_ he thinks. _Then all of this will have been for nothing._

John glares at him. “Maybe you should have thought of that _before_ you went to meet that psychopath _alone._ ” Suddenly he’s furious, standing up and grabbing Sherlock by the front of his shirt. “As a matter of fact, what were you _thinking?_ Are you fucking insane?”

“I was thinking that I didn’t want you to _die_!” Sherlock snarls in return, pushing him away roughly. John stumbles, but he doesn’t feel guilty, not at all. “I was thinking that he’s dangerous and I wanted you far away from him! I get you into dangerous situations all the time, but this time you could get hurt, are you being purposefully oblivious?”

“Well that worked out well didn’t it?” John hisses, rearing back as if he would like to hit him. Fine, Sherlock would welcome it. “We could have _both_ died.”

But at that Sherlock stops and swallows, a hard lump in his throat. This is it, he thinks. This is when he stops being clever and amazing, becomes _too much, too dangerous._ When John realizes that Sherlock isn’t good for anyone, that he’s probably on his way to an early grave because of him and Sherlock feels panic curling in his stomach. He’s going to leave, and Sherlock will be alone and-

“You’re being an idiot,” he says, with far more vitriol than he intended, but he can’t help it. If John has such paltry self-preservation skills, then what hope does Sherlock have of keeping him safe? _But what did you expect,_ his brother’s nasally voice asks him in his head. _When you decided to shack up with this trigger-happy army doctor?_

(“It’s nice, having a playmate, isn’t it,” Mycroft had stated, smiling, amidst the post-explosion broken detritus of his flat, poking some shattered glass with his umbrella. “I wouldn’t have chosen someone like that for you. Someone who _enables_ you, in all the worst ways.

“How fortunate that you have no right to choose anything for me,” Sherlock had responded snidely. He hated the indication that John was _wrong_ for him in any way, considering that Sherlock couldn’t have imagined a more perfect person to live with.)

John gapes at him, and then laughs, short and bitter. “ _I’m_ an idiot? Right. Of course. Everyone on this _planet_ is an idiot except for you, aren’t they?”

He expects this to be the beginning of a tirade, so he doesn’t respond. It’ll only make John louder and angrier.

Sherlock has never had any great life expectancy for himself anyway. He’d always assumed that he'd probably die during the course of some dangerous case, and it never really seemed like a terrible way to go. Because Jim’s right, dying is what people do, and he’s going to be one of them some day, but for John to die _for him?_ Impossible. Unthinkable.

“You know what? Fine,” John spits, his eyes bright blue and burning. “The next time something like this happens, and I’m _so_ sure it will, because you’re a maniac, and apparently I’m no better, maybe we’ll just die together, hmm? Get buried next to each other, rotting together for all eternity. You could compare our decomposition rates, give you something to do in the afterlife. Happy now?”

John means it as a joke, or a scathing comment, etc; but the thought is oddly comforting. Sherlock chooses not to say anything, because perhaps to other people he would sound morbid. It’s a fanciful notion, but death is, after all, lonely. 

***

John’s door is open, so he thinks it’s fine to lean against the frame and watch him for a few seconds before speaking.

“I didn’t tell you where I was going because I knew you’d come after me,” he says, because he feels it’s important to explain this. After tonight they presumably won’t speak of it again, because all it’ll do is make John angry. So he thinks it’s better to let him know.

John doesn’t startle. He must have known Sherlock was there. Odd, how quickly they've become accustomed to each other’s presence. (Occupying the same space for over a year will do that) He doesn’t even look at him, continues to fold his blanket.

“Of course I’d come after you,” he says, like a statement of fact - the earth goes round the sun (or so he’s been told) John would follow Sherlock to the grave. 

***

He’s a little bit furious with himself, if he’s being honest. John could have gone on thinking that he was heartless, (people are puzzles and nothing else), but Jim is right, he _has_ rather shown his hand.

The work will always have casualties; it’s just the way it is. Sherlock doesn’t understand why caring about those people will help him solve a case any faster. So he catalogues and differentiates and organises things in his head and puts everything into neat sections. 

He doesn’t know what to do about John, the way he’s settled into his head, his heart, his chest, refused to leave. 

Caring is always a disadvantage, and isn’t this proof; John strapped in Semtex, covered in red points of light, his terrified eyes, finding Sherlock’s. _We’re going to die aren’t we._

This chemical defect, the crack in his armour.

He has nightmares for weeks.

***

Gun trained to the back of John’s head, nestled in his soft ash-blonde hair, the cold sweep of panic, the ice that’s lining his gut. He wishes he knew the code, anything to get that gun _away_ from John, anything to get John out of here, somewhere safe, where he’s not being threatened with death at every conceivable moment because he’s chosen to throw in his lot with him. (Stupid idea, John, look where it’s gotten you.)

Irene is a distracting puzzle, and John’s jealousy is gratifying, but it’s a little ridiculous, the way he assumes that he’s in love with her.

But John is oblivious about the most obvious of things, it would be tedious if it wasn’t stupidly charming.

Perhaps it’s better for John to think that this is what he’s like when he’s in love or mourning the loss of it; heavy silences, depressing violin concertos in the middle of the night, entire packs of cigarettes disappearing in a day.

The real thing is hardly as Byronic. But he can’t complain. 

He knew what he was getting into the moment John limped into that lab and he’d decided he’d do anything he could to make him stay. 

***

“I thought you’d have gotten bored of him,” Mycroft says as he swirls the liquid in his tumbler, even as he considers his next move, eyes on the chessboard. 

(Once a month he’ll arrive at 221B with a bottle of expensive scotch and a board game; always on the nights John isn’t home. Sherlock always tells him to fuck off, and Mycroft always insists on imposing himself) 

“Be specific,” Sherlock replies impatiently, although it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what (or who) Mycroft was referring to. 

Mycroft ignores him. “But I see what’s happened is the exact opposite,” his eyes flick over Sherlock’s form, and he’s always hated it, that Mycroft is far more adept at this than he is. He never fails to remind Sherlock of it. Grey eyes meet his, Sherlock scoffs. 

“Your insinuations are not welcome here, Mycroft.”

“You’ve decided to keep him.”

“He’s not a pet.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees. He knocks Sherlock’s king off the board with his. “He’s much more than that, isn’t he.”

 _Be careful,_ is the unspoken caveat. _Best to keep the grit off the lens._

“Checkmate.”

***

He hates everything, and everything is _boring_ and nothing happens, at all, and Sherlock wants to disappear off the face of the planet. He’s surrounded by idiots, everyone is _stupid_ and his mind is going to rot under the weight of all the _nothingness._

He can hear John coming home, the clicking open of the door, but he doesn’t move from where he’s burrowed into the sofa. He pushes his face further into the cushions.

(John’s familiar coming-home-from-work smell, the clinical undertone of bleach and hand sanitizer, sometimes perfume from some over-eager nurse/doctor, and sometimes-like today- the briefest tang of vomit. Someone must have puked on him. He can tell from John’s gait and the loud clatter of keys that he’s had an unpleasant day. Could be one of those weepy pregnant teenagers that John finds so distressing, or the underage drug addicts with bruised faces that remind him of Sherlock.)

Sherlock should care, should comfort; but he is a sociopath and under no obligation to do any such thing.

John must see him now, curled up into a ball on the sofa, in the same ratty sweats and dressing gown he’s been wearing for the past three days. Sherlock should want _him_ , if no one else. Except even John is undesirable at this moment. What’s the point of getting attached to him, when eventually John is going to find some suitable female to copulate with on a regular basis, and he’ll marry her, and then they’ll ride off into the sunset together.

John isn’t going to _stay,_ is he, there never was any hope of that, so why is Sherlock trying so hard to ensure it?

He can feel John’s warm palm curve over his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Hey. You okay? You sick?”

“Go away,” he snarls, rather violently twisting his shoulder to shake John’s hand off.

John curses silently under his breath at this, although from the tone he knows it isn’t directed at him. He recognizes what this is, has taken to calling them “danger nights” like his overdramatic ponce of a brother. Interesting, that they think that little of him. As if Sherlock would risk all of this- John- for a rush of premium cocaine.

Tempting, though. Very tempting.

He wants John gone, out of this room, out of his flat. He wants to be left alone. There are two kinds of not-normal and this is the less interesting kind, the kind that’s freakish-weird-creepy and not at all something he wants John to see. He doesn’t care to turn around and check if John has done him the courtesy of pissing off, he only burrows deeper into the cushions and curls in on himself tighter.

***

He thinks John will have left by the time he wakes up. After all, who would want to stay with him when Sherlock is like this. He’s unpleasant to be around even when he’s at his very best, and this is the other end of the spectrum entirely.

But when he cracks open an eye John is still here. Calmly reading some drivel and drinking tea. Sherlock moves a little, stretches, and John’s gaze immediately shifts over to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, lets Sherlock throw off the blanket that John must have draped over him when he saw that Sherlock had fallen asleep and that he might get cold.

He sits up, scrapes a hand over his face and runs a hand through his hair. It’s gone all frizzy. He must look a fright.

John’s eyes flick over him in concern, his mouth a straight line. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, his voice mild as if he’s afraid of spooking him. Sherlock wants to roll his eyes, scoff, he doesn’t have to be _coddled,_ whatever it is that’s grabbed hold of him will eventually let go and it will _pass,_ it always does.

Except it’s easier when he doesn’t have to go through it alone. John pushes a mug of tea towards him with his index finger, it scrapes the wood as it slides across the coffee table. Oh. Tea. He’s expected to drink it, he supposes. Sherlock curls his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. Hm. John does make a lovely cuppa. 

“Not particularly,” he answers, and curls up very small in the corner of the sofa.

There _are_ things, he’ll agree, that would make this better. Sherlock suddenly feels as though he would very much like to crawl into John’s lap and stay there, tuck his head under his chin and breathe him in. Of course he’s too tall for that to be practical, and more importantly, he reminds himself; casual physical affection of the sort is more common between lovers, which they are not.

He would have settled for John simply being _next to him,_ closer, at least- but John is being extremely careful and patient with him, because he’s afraid that Sherlock will clam up if asked too many questions and then he’ll shut himself in his room again, which he is wont to do when the feels like this. So he’s sitting on his chair, where Sherlock can’t reach him. At least he didn’t leave.

“How long have you been sitting there?” Sherlock croaks. John turns the page of the novel he’s pretending to read.

“For a while,” he answers.

Keeping watch. Like a dog guarding his sleeping master. He could have been doing anything else. In fact, going by the shoes he’s still wearing he had a date tonight. It’s past eleven so he can’t be going anywhere right now. Cancelled, then? That’s the third time this month.

John has no idea, does he, how it feels to be put first by anybody? Judging by his family history John is not used to being taken care of, being made a _priority._ Is that why he finds it so easy to slip into the role of caretaker, when it comes to Sherlock? Because he’s making up for the things he didn’t receive as a child? Because he thinks it’s _important_?

Sherlock settles properly against the cushion that John _also_ must have put there, (slipped it under his head while he was sleeping) He smirks. “Look at you. Clucking over me like a mother hen.”

Of course John is no _mother hen,_ if he wanted to use a better word he would have said _wolf._ John’s protective tendencies stray into violence more often than not.

(The suspect, from the Cunningham case, he remembers it very distinctly. He’d been rattling him, provoking him, like he always does, and the man had lost it, lunged at him with a knife he’d been concealing. Sherlock should have intercepted it but he’d been at the case for over twelve hours and he’d been teetering towards exhaustion and he hadn’t noticed. John, who’d been standing behind him, on edge and waiting for something like this to happen, he supposes, had expertly grabbed his wrist and disarmed him, pinned him to the desk and whispered _try that again and I will break your wrist.)_

And then, of course, he’ll do things like this. Watch over his sleeping form as though he needs protecting in his own flat, as though something could happen to him if he were left alone, if John wasn’t there to ensure his safety.

(Or to ensure he didn’t give him the slip so he could seek out his more unsavoury acquaintances for a hit)

“Don’t be a prick,” John reprimands him mildly, and finally puts down his book. Christ. Another crime fiction series.

“Bad day?” Sherlock asks innocently, sipping his tea.

There’s a moment of silence before John laughs, and Sherlock cracks a smile despite himself. “You could say that,” he says, after a few seconds, still trembling a little with mirth. “And you?”

Sherlock raises his tea cup to him in a toast of sorts. “Bit better now, I suppose.”

***

John is out on his semi-monthly-pints-with- Lestrade evening. As he does every time, he’d paused at the door and asked him, with the usual trace of hopefulness, if he’d like to join. 

Sherlock finishes the last strain of his composition with a flourish and turns the page to begin the next. “And deny the two of you the opportunity to vent about me in private? I think not. I’m very altruistic, you know.” He tucks his violin under his chin. 

“We don’t vent about you,” John mutters defensively.

(Liar, Sherlock thinks. Sherlock is one of the few things they have in common, of _course_ they speak about him.)

He glances at John and shoots him a smirk. “Well it’s either that or listening to him weeping about his adulterous ex wife. I’d rather set myself on fire.” 

John rolls his eyes, calls him a drama queen and asks if he wants him to bring back kung pao chicken from that place he likes on the way back. Sherlock says yes, thanks, also some egg rolls if you can. John calls him some more names and leaves, but Sherlock knows he’ll remember the egg rolls.

So why is Lestrade calling him three hours later, when _he’s_ the one who jokes about their pint-evenings being John’s “night off”? 

“What is it,” Sherlock asks tiredly, putting down his violin. 

“Sherlock. Hello,” Lestrade responds. Sherlock narrows his eyes. He doesn’t sound all there. He hopes the man hasn’t gone and got himself kidnapped. 

“We’ve already exchanged pleasantries. What do you want?”

“Yeah, um…” he pauses for a few seconds and Sherlock has to call his name. “Yeah! Sorry, er-“ _ah. Drunk._ “Could you um...um...pick John up. We’re at Rogers’ and I think he’s had a few too many pints.”

Sherlock sits straight up. “What? Is he alright? Can he walk?” He’s already getting up, walking towards the door and reaching for his coat. 

“Erm...I dunno mate. I can’t answer so many questions, just come and pick him up. He’s going to get mugged, trying to get home like this.”

 _Useless,_ Sherlock thinks scathingly as he pulls his coat on over his shoulders. It’s a wonder he’s made detective inspector when he has the IQ of a five year old. 

And John. John never drinks to the extent that he can’t take himself home. What could possibly have induced him to do it tonight? 

***

It’s tedious, getting John out of there. Lestrade calls him his “knight in shining armour” and the two of them dissolve into giggles. Christ. These are two grown men. 

But he manages to pull John out of the booth, and even ensure that Lestrade isn’t driving himself anywhere, and that “one of the lads” was picking him up. 

John clings to him. Sherlock knows it’s because he’s unsteady on his feet and needs something to hold on to, but it feels nice, nevertheless. It’s cold outside, even with his heavy coat, and John is always warm to the touch. Probably because he wears so many layers. 

Of course John thinks this is the perfect time to have a heartfelt conversation. 

“Why’d you tell everyone you’re a...a... _sociopath?”_

His slur is adorable, and Sherlock would find it extremely amusing to stay here and listen to what else might spill from John’s drunken mouth. But he pulls him along. The quicker they find a cab, the quicker he can get John home and into bed, which is the responsible thing to do. He doesn’t want him to puke on the street. 

“Aren’t I?” 

“No, you tit. You’re not. You care about….things. Me. You care about me. Sometimes.”

Sherlock pauses. John stops too, albeit less gracefully. Is that what he thinks? Sherlock looks down at him, at the way their arms are linked together, and perhaps, under different circumstances this could have been...well. Romantic. Whatever. He doesn’t really know what that word entails. 

“I care about you _all the time,_ ” Sherlock informs him, with a hint of urgency in his voice. It’s important for John to know this. He thought he’d shown his hand, with the pool, and his ceaseless haunting of all of John’s girlfriends, and John can’t possibly refer to Sherlock’s affection for him that way, as something flippant, something that comes and goes, whimsical and unpredictable like Sherlock himself. 

But is it really so surprising, Sherlock thinks, and feels impossibly sad. 

John smiles up at him, a slow, lazy smile, and he looks much younger than he is, with his unfocused gaze and his wrinkled jumper. “See? You’re a right sap.” And then he stumbles and missteps, tripping over his own feet so that he falls forward and into Sherlock, and has to grip at his shirt to hold himself upright.

Oh, dear.

Sherlock exhales softly and tries to calm himself. John’s fingers are curled in his shirt very tightly, he’s pulled half of it out of his trousers, and his knuckles just barely brush his skin. He holds onto John’s biceps to steady himself. Hm. Quite well defined, but that’s hardly the point now. “John, could you just-” Christ, it’s like carrying around a sack of _logs._

“You know,” John interrupts him instead. “You have a nice mouth.”

“I _what?”_

John is pushing him backwards, until Sherlock’s back hits a wall. Sherlock isn’t sure what is expected of him, so he stays very still while his breath catches in his chest and John’s eyes fall to his lips. Oh god, no. No. No no no. Not like this. John _always_ get randy when he’s drunk, he’ll call up his girlfriends and disappear for the night, or he’ll stumble to his bedroom to masturbate. Sherlock is not going to- Sherlock really _can’t-_ it’s entirely unfair of John to-

“Cupid’s bow, is what it’s called,” John says, his voice unexpectedly soft, lightly tracing the top of his lip with his index finger. “This little dip...right...here…”

Sherlock feels warm everywhere. He has a sudden desire to take off his scarf, his coat, ~~his trousers~~ but he cannot move at all. John’s finger rests on his bottom lip, drags it down a bit so that Sherlock can just barely flick the tip with his tongue. 

John moves a tiny bit closer, and his head tilts fractionally in a very telling gesture. 

Sherlock knows what happens next. What _could_ happen next, at least. It’s tempting to suck John’s finger into his mouth and watch his eyes grow wider, darker. Grab him by the hips, pull him closer, flush against his body. Not really the place he’d imagined it happening, up against some grimy brickwork behind a pub. And he usually imagined John sober.

(If alcohol was involved in the fantasy, then they were _both_ drunk, off of some expensive wine. They’d be celebrating the conclusion of a difficult case, which would eventually end in energetic love-making in front of the fireplace. Oh, well.)

Instead, he swerves out of the way of John’s mouth, turning his head to the side so that John’s lips brush against his jaw instead. Sherlock shuts his eyes, curls his hands into fists and the nails dig into his palm. 

John’s mouth is warm and wet against his skin. Sherlock stands there, frozen still. Warm breath flutters over his neck, John’s hands find their way to his hips, squeeze. God, but that is lovely. Sherlock could just stand there, pinned against the wall by John’s compact form and let inevitability take its course. Not much to lose here, John would either not remember it or pretend to have forgotten it, and Sherlock would finally know what it felt like, being touched by John. Properly.

But it doesn’t sit as right with him as he thought it would, being shoved to the back of John’s head like some dirty secret. He doesn’t want to be a _regret._

“John.”

“Hmm,” John responds, and presses against him more insistently. 

Sherlock pushes him away, firmly, hands on his shoulders. John’s gaze finds his immediately, his eyes half-lidded, pupils wide and dark. He looks slightly dazed. “You- you smell nice,” he tells him.

“Thank you. Come along, we have to find a cab.”

John is drunk enough to be easily distracted, so he holds on to Sherlock and follows him willingly enough up to the corner of the street where he quickly hails down a cab. He holds the door open for John as he slips inside, and he follows. He has half a mind to sit up in front next to the driver. If John attempts to grope him again Sherlock will not find it in himself to refuse. He _doesn’t_ have the self control of a saint, unfortunately, and the memory of John’s half-hard cock (substantially sized, turns out his hypothesis _hadn't_ been over-generous) pressing into his thigh is not something that will easily fade.

He feels a little angry, especially when John slumps next to him and falls asleep on his shoulder.

Alright, fine, it’s not something he can _help._ But his annoyance lingers. 

He can smell John’s drugstore shampoo. And he hates it. 

***

He manages to pull John out of the cab and drag him upstairs. The latter part is a bit of a challenge, especially with John mumbling things into his neck. He can barely understand any of it. 

John is plastered to his side while he fiddles with his key and attempts to open the door. He’s sure John can stand by himself, or perhaps if he were so inclined he could find something else to lean against. 

“Sherlock,” he says, very quietly.

“Yes, what,” Sherlock snaps, finally throwing the door open and wrapping an arm around John’s waist so he can pull the two of them through it. 

“You never turn up when- when I’m out with Lestrade.”

“That’s because Lestrade is very uninteresting and there’s no need for the both of us to suffer him.”

John is quiet for a few seconds, wobbling a bit as he stands in the middle of the sitting room unaided as Sherlock locks the door and hangs up his coat. 

“You did it with Sarah. And the others after that,” he points out.

How telling that John is not as annoyingly perceptive sober than he is drunk. Sherlock isn’t worried about his sudden moment of clarity, he probably won’t remember it. 

“Yes, well,” he clasps John’s bicep and leads him to his own bedroom. He can’t possibly lug the man up another flight of stairs. More convenient to have him here. Sherlock isn’t sleepy anyway. “Perhaps Lestrade is more tolerable than they are.”

“Yeah. Definitely not as pretty as them,” John agrees, as Sherlock stands him at the foot of the bed. He’s going to have to take off his ridiculous cable-knit jumper, he can’t possibly sleep in that. He ignores John’s nonsense and grips the hem of the jumper and pulls it upward. John makes a surprised noise and struggles a bit but Sherlock manages to wrangle it off of his head. The static makes his hair stand up on end. “ _Jesus,_ ” John breathes out, eyes wide. “Buy me dinner first.”

Sherlock responds with a roll of his eyes, despite the heat that gathers in his cheeks, his gut. He gently pushes John towards the bed and he falls into it easily. “Could you, just- just go to sleep, John,” Sherlock instructs him, suddenly feeling very, very tired.

“This is your bed,” John murmurs, his eyes already fluttering. “Smells like you.”

Sherlock swallows, his jaw tight. Best not to keep John talking, so he stays silent, bending over John’s supine form so he can reach for his belt. He just needs to get it off- and then he’ll leave John alone-

“Do you really just go straight for a bloke’s trousers, then?” John’s laugh is little more than a soft exhale, seeing as he’s already half asleep. Sherlock slips the belt through the loops with a bit more force than necessary. 

“Shut up.” _Please, please, just go to sleep._

He must have drifted off after that, because while Sherlock is slipping off his shoes and socks, he can hear a soft snore. Finally. He leaves John on with his shirt and trousers. He’ll be fine. And the thought of a half dressed John in his bed is already doing odd things to his head. 

So he leaves him as he is, and throws the quilt over him. 

He puts some paracetamol and a bottle of water on the nightstand. John will wake up and see them and maybe he will think of Sherlock. 

He looks at John’s sleeping face, his sandy eyelashes, the greyish blond of his hair sweeping over his forehead. Sometimes Sherlock wants him so much he can’t stand it. Despite the fact that John is sprawled on the bed there’s enough space for Sherlock to slip in, especially if he burrowed in very close. It’s not as if they’ve never shared a bed before. (Although that was out of necessity, wasn’t it, not because John was particularly inclined to sleep next to him, and besides, there was also that careful bit of respectable space between them) 

Never mind. 

He shuts the door behind himself as he leaves, but keeps it a little ajar in case, just in case, John needs him. He won’t, John has suffered through plenty of hangovers he’s sure, and will sail through this admirably as well.

It doesn’t stop him from curling up on the sofa and staying awake as long as possible. He doesn’t want John to wake up and call for him and not get a reply.

It’s a sentimental thought, but Sherlock would hate for John to feel alone, ever. Not with him around.


	4. add up the parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’ve never seen someone attractive and thought, _sod the rule_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, as expected, I have a lot of time on my hands. here's another WIP update!  
> TW: mention of past abusive/unhealthy relationship
> 
> stay safe, lovelies.

> _Well, there was a time when you let me know_
> 
> _What's really going on below_
> 
> _But now you never show that to me, do ya?_

John is uncomfortable.

And it’s hardly for the most obvious reason; that he looks terribly out of place in this club (with the _lights,_ and the _grinding_ ) in his grey jumper and his sensible shoes, no, John feels uncomfortable because he doesn’t like Sherlock being here, at all.

Annoying, this, being able to tell John’s state of mind from the turn of his chin and the bend of his shoulders, the rigid line of his jaw. Sherlock can read people, yes, but most of the time their distress is never so _loud_ in his ears. And part of him wants to get John out of here, if for nothing else than for John to stop _looking_ at him as though Sherlock’s a minute away from slipping away from him and finding a dealer.

Hardly difficult John, there are at least eleven people here who could provide me with drugs should I give the slightest inclination of wanting them, but I _don’t,_ because I’m sober, and planning to remain so for a while.

“You’re sticking out like a sore thumb,” Sherlock says, bending down so he can shout the words into John’s ear, over the thumping bass. “I told you to change.”

“I’m not going to fool anyone, regardless of how tight my trousers are,” John argues, rolling his eyes. Sherlock disagrees, if only for the reason that he thinks John might look quite nice in tighter trousers.

“You could have worn a different coat.”

“Not all of us can wear a fancy Belstaff and look like a supermodel.”

Sherlock feels his ears grow very warm. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

John makes a noise that clearly seems to say ‘ _You’re the ridiculous one’,_ and then he’s quiet, standing next to Sherlock, arms crossed across his chest and his stance challenging and aggressive as though he thinks their suspect is just about to fling himself out of the sweaty, grinding crowd and go straight for Sherlock’s jugular.

Not that that’s never happened before, so perhaps John’s over-protectiveness is justified.

Well, John can stand there looking angrily at the entire club but Sherlock thinks it would be more prudent for him to look more at ease here, so he leans properly against the bar, letting the lines of his body blur and soften, making himself look languid and, well. _Easy._

For a brief moment he can feel John glance at him and make an odd sort of noise in his throat, but he looks away just as quickly.

“How long-“ John clears his throat. “When do you think-“

Sherlock shrugs. “Soon. We’ll just have to keep waiting. You could order a drink.”

“Yeah, no,” John gives him another furtive once over and continues to stare daggers at everyone. “I’d rather be fully alert with you looking like…that.”

“Like what?”

Dangerous ground, here, he reminds himself.

“Never mind,” John grunts.

Sherlock just smirks, despite himself. It’s almost muscle memory, all of this. He’s done this before, used to frequent places like this when he was younger. Station himself at the bar just like this, maybe with slightly less clothing, and wait. He was young, reckless, attractive in all the right ways. He was very good at getting what he wanted.

Well, he thinks, with a sidelong glance at John. _Was._

He wonders, idly, if John would have wanted him then. He’s hardly sure of John’s type now, he seems to be happy to shag anything female with two legs. Perhaps John was less strict about his _I’m Not Gay_ rule then, when there was no scar curling over his shoulder, when his hands didn’t tremble. Perhaps Sherlock could have enticed him, if he led John to believe he was even a little bit dangerous.

 _That_ hasn’t changed, he thinks. John can pretend, sure. John can go out on boring dates with dinner and a film, and John can have as much sub-standard sex as he likes, (Sherlock can tell, he can _always_ tell) but he’d only be happier if he found someone, well. More jagged. Sharper.

Anyway. Really no point thinking about that now.

( _Come here often?_

And Sherlock would roll his eyes and tilt his head like he’s _so_ used to the routine, he’d bite his lip and suck a cocktail through a straw rather suggestively, and John’s eyes would darken and then the penny would drop and they’d click, and-)

He’s on a fucking _case._

Sherlock sighs, considers having a drink himself.

The minutes pass by slowly, and he gets quite a few interested glances, but there must be something about John standing next to him that discourages them from approaching. John is, quite possibly, not even aware of the air he’s giving off, and Sherlock is not going to tell him. Not the first time people have thought of them as a couple. Might as well use it his advantage. Keep off the distractions.

(Except John. Yes, John is a distraction he must endure, except he’s less a distraction and more of a phantom limb. Sherlock seems to feel like he’s there even when he isn’t, sometimes he’ll lean to the side expecting to find the comforting touch of wool but there’s nothing there, because John is off on a date or at work or doing something equally tedious that doesn’t involve Sherlock.

_~~Do you keep on talking while I’m away?~~ _

~~Pathetically, yes~~.)

Sherlock continues to scan the bar, making off-hand deductions about the patrons that make John smile or send him a half-hearted glare.

Later, he thinks he can see someone who might be their suspect pass out of the crowd and through the back door of the club, and he tells John that this means his accomplice will be meeting clients by the front. “Meet me in there in ten minutes,” Sherlock instructs him, and he doesn’t look happy about it. John _hates_ splitting up. He’ll make that face- the _you’re going to do something stupid and I’m going to come back to find you bleeding out again-_ but needs must.

***

Fuck, there’s no one here. They must have left, or realised they were being followed, or John might have suddenly found himself outnumbered. Damn it.

Suddenly he feels a grip around his elbow; hard, painful, he’s being twisted around. Years of learning how to defend himself (schoolyard bullies, criminals, disgruntled clients, boxing lessons, mixed martial arts) has him raising his other fist in response, mouth already turned up in a snarl, but then he falters.

“ _Thought_ I saw you,” his old dealer says, and smiles in a sickeningly familiar way.

“Milo?”

He’s aged, yes, hair a bit greyer at the temples and he has a scraggly beard, but Sherlock couldn’t forget him even if he tried. Milo’s fingers curl tighter around his arm and Sherlock finds that he can’t move, not at all, even though he can currently think of at least six ways to decapitate him, and sixteen more will present themselves in the next minute.

But instead Sherlock is still (Shock? Terror? Habit?), staring his past in the face and for once completely, utterly, out of his depth.

“Still got that runty look about you. Like a lost kitten.”

Sherlock should have known that they’d cross paths sooner or later, what with his habit of frequenting less-than savoury places in pursuit of criminals, but he’d always thought that he’d have John with him, and John would have a gun, or something, and he hadn’t been _expecting_ it tonight, which explains the way his body _won’t fucking listen to him._

“Get off of me, Milo,” Sherlock says, voice shaking.

“Heard you’re a detective now and all,” Milo answers instead, and pushes him against the wall. There are bins lined up next to them, lewd graffiti on the walls. All Sherlock has to do is kick him between his legs. Or shove his fingers into his eyelids, if he were so inclined. “Saw you in there with your boyfriend. I read his blog sometimes. Real proud of you, Lock.”

Sherlock feels disgust curl in his gut. No. No, he’s not going to stand here and listen to this. This part of his life is over and done with, and he’s gone and made something of himself, he’s happy and he has John and he’s _clean_ and he refuses to have to go through this again. “Yes, well. Thank you. Could you get off of me now, Milo. Lovely to see you. Must go, I’ve got a case.” He twists a bit under his grip, but Milo’s fingers don’t slacken.

“Figured,” Milo nods, and tries to cover the distance between their bodies by pressing himself closer. “Always looked cute when you did your deducing thing. Do you still need, what did you call it- _stimulants?_ Cause I’ve got some on me, now. Might even give it to you for free, for old time’s sake. No need to pay.” And he leers at him. Leers, like Sherlock is still twenty two and begging him for a place to stay because he doesn’t have any access to his trust fund and he’d rather shoot himself in the head than go to Mycroft for help.

“No, thank you,” this would be easier if Milo was _actually_ their suspect, but he clearly isn’t, Milo has a tattoo on his forearm and not on his neck, and the scale and scope of the smuggling ring is far too large and complex for someone like him to handle.

“You know, you could have said a proper goodbye to me, when you left,” Milo murmurs, voice sickeningly soft. Sherlock feels a finger tip slide down the side of his face. “Indecent of you, the way you did a runner on me. After everything I did for you.”

“W-what?”

His next words are cut off by a forearm curling around his shoulders, wrenching him back and pulling him away from Sherlock. Sherlock shudders out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, and watches, his heart lodged uncomfortably in his throat as John presses his Browning into Milo’s temple, digging it in until the edges probably scrape against skin.

“Who the- get your fucking hands-” Milo struggles violently against him, and Sherlock is relieved.

“Sherlock,” John says calmly, holding him steadfast, forearm inching a little higher until it’s pressed against his throat. Milo chokes, struggles, scrabbles at his arm in an attempt to get John to let go of him. “Is this the man you were looking for?”

“Get your fucking- _hands-“_

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s voice finally comes clawing out of his mouth and he gasps, “No. He’s not.”

“Lovely,” John says, and shoots him a small, dangerous smile, and he pulls Milo’s head back, hair in his fist, and whacks him right across his temple with the butt of his gun. Milo crumples to the ground with a grunt, unconscious.

Sherlock is shaking, right there in this filthy alleyway, and he wishes he could stop. John is here, and so is _he,_ and John is supposed to think he’s clever and amazing and instead he’s standing there and shivering underneath his coat and his heart is thudding out a stupid staccato beat underneath his ribs. But it’s fine, he’s fine, Milo is on the ground and not touching him anymore.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice, heavy with worry, he’s still standing what feels like miles and miles away. God, John, for once could you just come closer, could you _just._

John must read his mind because a second later, he’s right there, right in front of him, warmth bleeding through his skin and into Sherlock’s. His palms find either side of his face, his eyes are bright and burning, gaze so concerned and terrified, as though Sherlock has vanished and left a spooked, wounded animal in its place and maybe the comparison isn’t far off, because Sherlock doesn’t feel like he’s all there either.

“Alright? Sherlock. Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

Sherlock shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut and he wants to burrow into John, into his warmth, but he keeps his arms pinned at his side. He’s not supposed to behave like this. Sherlock has faced worse criminals, has gotten thrown to the ground and tied up and he’s taken a knife to the ribs, so why does he feel like… _this?_

Snap out of it, he tells himself. _Snap out of it._ It’s over, he’s gone, and John is here- _John._ Holding him steady behind a dumpster, Sherlock feels like he’s about to become insubstantial, fall apart under John’s hands. He wants to, a bit.

“I want to go home,” he chokes out, and he doesn’t recognise his own voice. Small and terrified and practically helpless-sounding.

He opens his eyes and John’s expression is unspeakably strange, feral and tender and he wants to take the easy way out and say, god the man is _pitying_ me now, but that’s not quite it. He only nods and says, “Okay. Let’s go home.” As if Sherlock isn’t being ridiculous. As if they’re not in the middle of a case. As if John doesn’t have questions that Sherlock cannot bring himself to answer. John’s clearly put two and two together and figured Milo, who’s still on the ground, bleeding from his head, isn’t just some two-bit criminal because a two bit criminal wouldn’t have Sherlock shaking and almost pissing his pants.

Time blurs and they’re in a cab, and Sherlock is sitting as far away from John as possible because if they were close enough Sherlock would find a way to curl around him, tangle their bodies together until no one can tell who is who.

And they don’t speak the entire ride home, although he can feel John’s glance on him every few seconds, his concern settling over him like a thick and heavy blanket. Sherlock would like to make admissions. Sherlock would like to _explain,_ because it’s easier to tell John than anyone else. But every time he opens his mouth the words cling to his mouth like glue and nothing comes out at all.

***

“I don’t care, you know,” John finally bursts. Sherlock keeps staring at the cup of tea John has put in front of him. John always makes tea when he’s uncomfortable. He thinks it’s a magical cure-all for anything and everything under the sun. Sherlock doesn’t mind. It makes him feel like he’s being taken care of.

“Hmm?”

His knees are drawn up to his chest, he rests his chin on them, arms around his chin, and John leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest, looking at him as though he thinks Sherlock is about to disintegrate any moment, or fly off the handle, or melt into a puddle of tears. He’s not going to do any of these things. All he feels is tired and empty.

“I don’t care, who he was, or what it was. I just, I’m just glad you’re okay. And look, you don’t even have to tell me if you don’t want to. He was a fucking wanker and I should have given him a kick in the gut while I was at it, but I wasn’t thinking properly at the time. So. That’s all there is to it. Do you want something stronger than that tea?”

“He was my dealer,” Sherlock says, his voice carefully blank. “We used to live together. I told you about it, if you recall. Tottenham, right out of university.”

John is quiet. Waiting for him to finish.

“We had an…arrangement. It was short-lived, ill advised, I was young and I was being an idiot. I’ll admit that. That’s it.”

He waits for John to connect the dots, and maybe he does, and maybe he doesn’t, but John doesn’t say _I’m sorry,_ or _that must have been awful for you,_ and he doesn’t make the slightest indication of having heard anything at all. Sherlock can’t bring himself to look up, so he doesn’t really know. A moment later, he sees John’s hand in front of him, around a bottle of whiskey, pouring some into his cup.

“Pity I had my gun and didn’t use it to its full potential,” he mutters.

***

They don’t talk about it, after that night, John must have known that Sherlock would prefer to forget all about it, his stupid moment of weakness. And he thinks of asking, grabbing the sleeve of his jumper and confirming, you still think I’m brilliant, right?

But he doesn’t have to ask, because John is still the same. Sometimes Sherlock feels like he could drag a corpse to their flat and say _Well now I’ve gone and done it, John. We’re finally standing around a body and I put it there,_ and John will just nod and say right, well, we’ve got to get rid of it now.

Unerringly patient, kind even when he doesn’t deserve it, indulgent when he’s being a bit not good, Sherlock doesn’t understand him, but maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the years will just pass on by and he’ll still be unravelling him, and John will still be as surprising as the day they met.

***

“Yeah, a scar on his collarbone. Gold earring. Hm. Left ear. Tattoo on his arm, right. Can’t you, I don’t know, get rid of him?”

Sherlock presses himself closer to the doorway of his bedroom. John is speaking quietly, but the flat is quiet, one of those rare Sunday afternoons where Sherlock didn’t feel like doing anything except having a bit of a lie-in. He’d been asleep the entire morning, and he wakes up now to John having a furtive conversation with his brother. _Obviously._

“Don’t think anyone would care. Yeah, well. I just don’t want Sherlock to have to see him again. Ever.”

Static on the other end, Mycroft agreeing whole heartedly.

“Right. Great. Best not to tell him, I think.”

He hangs up, and he might as well have punched him through the gut, for the way Sherlock feels. He should be angry. Why isn’t he angry? He doesn’t need anyone coddling him, protecting him like he can’t take care of himself. Sherlock isn’t some damsel in distress who needs _saving._

And yet, the only thing he feels is relief.

Somehow, John can always tell what he needs.

***

And John will make him tea when he has a sore throat, and he’ll grab the lapels of his coat and shake him, shake him till his teeth rattle so much he can feel it inside of his head, because Sherlock went running after a serial killer without telling him, and _You promised. You promised you would tell me, you giant fucking prat, one day you’re going to get your skull bashed in and I won’t be there._

Sherlock feels his throat closing up and he has to keep very still, keep his jaw so tight it hurts because there’s something about John’s expression, the wild panic in his eyes that makes him want to surge forward and kiss him and say _I’m fine, I’m fine,_ because he thinks John would believe him then. If he could press up against him and crush him to his body maybe then John would be convinced that he’s still breathing, but they have to settle for this.

Don’t do things like that, he wants to say. He hates it when John _touches_ him and he has no idea what it does to him, the way his skin explodes and the way warmth blooms in his body and sometimes it feels like he’s walking around with a bullet lodged inside of his sternum, and he can’t get it out and it hurts to keep it in, but John looks at him over a rotting corpse and smiles, eyes sparkling, and the hurt is gone.

***

“He’s going to ask you out,” John says suddenly, across the breakfast table, the words bursting out of his mouth like he’d been holding them in for a long time.

“Eh?” Sherlock lowers the newspaper, raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already deleted it. That client of ours, the one from the embezzling case.”

“Ah,” Sherlock raises a slice of toast to his mouth and bites off a crunchy piece. “He already has.”

“He- what?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, passes his mobile over to John across the dining table. John stares at him for a second before snapping the mobile up, finger flicking across the screen until he comes face to face with the incriminating message. Sherlock doesn’t remember what it says exactly, he’d deleted it as soon as he’d read it. Something banal and boring and uninteresting and Sherlock isn’t the slightest bit inclined to even respond to it.

John’s mouth curls in slight disgust at the message. Does he know he’s doing that? Probably not.

When the client, what’s his name, Sherlock keeps forgetting, had approached them at the restaurant they’d been at, John had been all smiles and polite greetings and making jokes about the thieving secretary they’d caught for him- until he’d asked Sherlock if he could type his number into his mobile and if Sherlock would please call him when he was free, he’d love to meet him again sometime, properly.

They’d just solved another case, a sixteen-hour stakeout and Sherlock had been ravenously hungry, just about to tuck into the tiramisu John had ordered for him because John knew what he wanted, and he’d just said “Alright. Goodbye,” or something of the sort, and allowed the man to do what he pleased.

He hadn’t expected John to shake his hand with what he can clearly see is more force than necessary afterwards, or mutter _tosser_ to himself when he was out of sight.

“Am I a piece of furniture,” he’d asked, stabbing his risotto.

“You can have him, if you’d like,” Sherlock had teased, and John had rolled his eyes..

“You know, for someone who’s married to his work, you do get a lot of offers.” Sherlock can’t detect his tone. Angry? Jealous? Admiring?

Well. John is one to talk. Sherlock isn’t keeping count but he’s quite sure John has had more offers than him. Not that they’re competing. Sherlock doesn’t even _care._

“He just broke up with his girlfriend of six years and is looking for a rebound. Recently discovered his bisexuality. He wants to…experiment,” he slices off a bit of tiramisu with his fork and pops it in his mouth, looking at John all the while. He notes the faint pinkening of John’s ears and the way his eyes fixate on his lips before he rather angrily turns back to his food.

“That’s not fair. You’re not something to…experiment on.”

“Rather ironic, though, don’t you think?” Sherlock smirks, and John looks up at him, his mouth twisting despite of himself into a grin.

“How the tables have turned,” John says, and tips the edge of his wine glass against his mouth.

“You’re not going to, though,” John asks him. Or tells him, more like, when they’re walking back home. Side by side. Sherlock’s hands in his pockets, John’s clasped behind his back. It was a nice evening, John had suggested they walk, and Sherlock had agreed. He enjoys these moments, when it’s just him and John, slightly tipsy and thoroughly exhausted after an excellent case.

He’d like to slip his hands into John’s, just to see, if his skin is warmer than his, if he could warm him up, because his hands are freezing, despite his gloves.

“Not going to what?”

“Go out with him?”

Sherlock glances down at John, who is staring resolutely in front of himself. Oh. He _is_ jealous. Why, though? Sherlock hadn’t even given the slightest indication of being interested.

“I recall telling you that I am married to my work,” Sherlock reminds him.

“You don’t ever think of…having an affair?”

Sherlock throws him a wry smile. “Look at you, condoning infidelity.”

“I’m not _condoning infidelity_ , I’m just wondering if you’ve ever thought of…” John fiddles with his coat collar as he wonders how he’s going to finish that sentence. “Bending the rule. A bit.”

Sherlock looks down at his feet, at the way John and his feet somehow move together in step. Absolutely in sync. It’s as familiar as breathing, being with John. Working together like a- what’s that phrase, the clichéd one- a well-oiled machine. The brain and the heart, a tabloid had dubbed them once.

They wouldn’t really use that dichotomy if they actually knew them, but it’s fine.

“It’s not a rule as much as it is a preference,” Sherlock murmurs, although the words sound odd and stilted.

John asks him if he ever thinks of bending the rule, and Sherlock wants to say, John I’d tear up that rule and throw it in the gutter, if you’d only ask. If you’d imply, even a little bit, that you wanted me the way I want you.

 _Terribly_ dramatic and sentimental, that. So he doesn’t say anything else.

“So you’ve never seen someone attractive and thought, _sod the rule_?”

The very first night we met, it almost tumbles out of his mouth. Don’t make me say it John, don’t make me ruin this. The moment I saw you I thought that _very_ thing.

Instead, he smiles ruefully and tries to walk closer to John so that their arms brush against each other with every step.

“Not that I recall.”

And now, now, John is making that face at the mobile screen and putting down the phone rather forcefully. Don’t break the screen, John, Mycroft would be so _upset_ if he had to get another one of his Military-Grade-GPS models.

***

It’s not to make John jealous.

Well, maybe a bit, but that’s a little pathetic, really, so he tells himself it’s because he hasn’t shagged anyone in a while, and Austin is passably attractive. Alright, what he really is, is _curious,_ because he can’t be imagining John’s jealousy, his covetousness. John’s the only one who understands him, the one who translates Sherlock-speak for everyone else, who knows Sherlock better than anyone else, so why would Sherlock feel the need to associate with anyone else? John is all he needs, isn’t he?

True, except for the bit where you won’t _shag_ me, John.

(So he just wants to see. A bit. Could he make him jealous? Could he make him possessive and angry and could he turn John’s eyes dark and-)

As long as there are few words involved and Sherlock isn’t expected to sit through dinner and some remarkably pedestrian film, he’s not actually that averse to the idea of ‘going out’ with someone. If going out is confined to a few pleasurable activities.

And there goes the rule, or the preference, or whatever John wants to call it. Fuck it, he deserves this. It’s been too long and John makes it difficult to repress his transport as it is, it’s not a terrible decision to get off with someone who is, for whatever strange reason, attracted to him.

So he lets their client- Austin- don’t forget his name again- ply him with alcohol and he lets him grope him through his trousers in his car, and he lets himself be led upstairs into his flat and into his bed, stripped of his clothing, eager fingers followed by eager cock pushing inside of him.

Austin’s teeth dig into his shoulder as he fucks him from behind in his bed. Sherlock reaches out for the headboard, grabs it until his knuckles turn white and he moans into the pillow, teeth finding cotton and pulling.

“Fuck, that’s- so good-“

“ _Harder-“_ John. Please, oh god, _John-_

Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.

He groans into the pillow because he’d like to imagine someone else behind him, someone else’s hands in his curls, rearing his head back, pressing teeth into the delicate skin of his throat, sucking. It’s been a while but Sherlock knows how to writhe underneath a body, knows how to arch his back and moan when a cock hits that spot inside of him that make his insides contract and his toes curl.

He says John’s name when he comes, because that’s just how far gone he is, but he buries his head into the pillow and groans it like a secret, his voice muffled so even he can’t hear it, but he’ll know, he’ll _remember._

He’s not sure when he stumbles in. He’s not even wearing his watch. Hmm. Had he forgotten it in Austin’s car? Fine by him. It was a rubbish watch anyway, gift from a client. He might be pleased to have something to remember him by. Sherlock’s quite sure he’s given the man the best shag of his life.

Sherlock’s not sure he has enough coordination to hang his coat on the door so instead he makes his way to his armchair and pours himself into it. Hmm. Lovely. John must have lit the fire. John. Where is he anyway? He should be home. Unless he’s out with someone. Hmph. John is always out with other people. Doing things to them. Things that he should be doing with Sherlock. 

“Christ. What happened to you?”

Sherlock lets a slow, easy smile stretch across his face as he looks at John. He must have been in the kitchen. Making tea. John’s always making tea. It’s nice though, hearing him clattering about in the kitchen. Creating that odd din of domesticity that he’s gotten so used to.

John stares at him for a moment longer before he seems to realise something. Sherlock can hear it click. He steps closer, closer, until he’s standing in front of his armchair, so close that Sherlock could just lean forward and press his forehead to his thigh. John whistles, waving the air in front of his face.

“Are you-“

“I have consumed a large amount of alcohol, yes,” Sherlock concedes, and watches in delight as John seems to struggle with this new fact. His eyes make an slow path down his body, noting, definitely, his state of dishevelment and the- what’s the word- _hickey-_ on his neck, and if John had his deducing capabilities he might have been able to tell from the way he’s worn his belt and the absence of his watch what _exactly_ he got up to, but John doesn’t need the details, does he, John just needs the basics.

“You were on a _date,_ ” he suddenly blurts, and his expression is doing a Thing that Sherlock can’t recognise. He seems to be going for a teasing smile but actually it’s coming off as a sort of grimace. “With that- that bloke from the case. I thought-“ he pauses.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

John steps back from him and sinks into his own armchair. “I thought you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Sherlock rolls over on his side, so easy to do it, his body is so fluid suddenly; he rolls over and rests his cheek on his palm. “I didn’t do _what._ ”

“I thought you weren’t going to call him back.” Not what he was going to say, but Sherlock can read between the lines.

“He was persistent. I was bored.”

“So you went on a _date._ ” John looks horrified at this. Why? Oh, right. Sherlock is married to his work. Sex ~~doesn’t~~ alarms him. John still thinks of him as a monk. “With _him?”_

Sherlock shrugs, rolls over his back, lets his head fall over one edge of the armchair, his eyes closing. The entire room is spinning. “Still married to my work,” he mumbles.

He’s not though. He’s not. Not since John. Maybe he should tell him. _I did consider myself married to my work, but you’ve gone and turned my head, so now I’m kind of on the fence about the whole thing._ John is silent for a long time, and Sherlock is almost drifting off, so he can’t see his face but he can practically _hear_ him thinking. Re-evaluating his entire belief system.

“And you- you-“ John stammers some more and suddenly Sherlock is finding all of this very tedious. Yes, John, I went right ahead and shagged a human male, what is your _point_? Can you blame him really, what with John walking around the flat in his stupid jumper and holding his gun all the time, rubbing his palm around the metal, and licking his _lips,_ what does John expect him to do? Explode? Because Sherlock does feel like exploding sometimes. Feels like just- grabbing John- and just-

“Use your words John,” Sherlock tells him sternly, and uncoils himself from the armchair. He’s very thirsty. He stands up, but then the room spins, and he must sway a bit, because suddenly John is in front of him, steadying him with his hands cupping his elbows.

Oh.

John is very close.

“I just thought you didn’t, you know. You implied you weren’t going to. Just surprised, is all.”

Sherlock wants to scoff, roll his eyes. Judging from John’s meltdown a few seconds ago, “just surprised, is all” is not really his current state of mind. Sherlock bends his head, so he’s level with John, can stare right into his eyes.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

John’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “ _What?_ No. No, I’m not _jealous._ Why would I be…Christ. No. _No._ ”

Sherlock cocks his head and continues to stare at John while he denies it even more vigorously. It’s not a far-off deduction. John is a jealous man. Maybe he doesn’t know it himself, maybe he tells himself he’s just _looking out_ for Sherlock, like mates do. But Sherlock can’t have imagined his clear discomfort when The Woman was right in front of him, tits in his face, playing around with him like a cat with a ball of yarn.

He hadn’t responded to her, at all, really. She was interesting, sure, a worthy adversary, but that’s all there was to it.

“I’m, er happy for you,” John finally concludes. It seems to take him a great deal of effort to spit it out, his jaw working feverishly.

“It’s alright, if you are,” Sherlock finds himself saying, words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Maybe he could shut up if John wasn’t so close to him, so close that he kiss the tops of his eyelids, lick a stripe up his neck and taste him, if he wanted to. If John was amenable. “It’s natural. Irrational, perhaps, but natural.” This is dangerous territory, indeed. But he can’t seem to shut up. “You’re so used to being the only one around me, it must be jarring to watch me being intimate with someone else.”

“Hang on now- wait, w- _intimate_?”

Sherlock just smiles at him, extricates himself easily from John’s slackening grip, and makes his way to the kitchen. John is still standing where he left him. His skin is still tingling from where John’s fingers had curled around his arms.

“Do you want a drink,” Sherlock calls out from the kitchen.

“Yeah, okay,” John says faintly. “Could do with a drink.”

“I’m not jealous,” John repeats again, accepting the tumbler from Sherlock’s hand when he returns. Sherlock sits down next to him on the sofa, sprawls in it, more like. He puts his legs on the coffee table, rests one ankle on top of the other.

“Alright, John.”

“It’s just…weird. You seemed completely uninterested in him, then you go and- what? Have a drink with him at bar? Well. More than one drink, clearly. I mean, you didn’t tell me-“

“You shag a new woman every week. I don’t recall you giving me a list,” Sherlock replies, a little snappishly, and John turns sharply towards him, before deflating a little.

“Well. Yeah. I guess. Do you…do you want me to?”

Sherlock’s lip curls in disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Silence, for the next few moments. John drains the rest of his glass and puts it on the table, and then he’s clearly uncomfortable, clearly dithering over whether to say something or not.

“So you’re not. I mean, you _do-“_

“I am not asexual,” Sherlock says, with what he hopes is a sense of finality. He does not want to discuss this. He doesn’t feel like satisfying John’s curiosity at the moment. Whatever he does behind closed doors should be his business, shouldn’t it? No matter how much Sherlock hates it, or how much he wants to rip off his own ears so he doesn’t have to listen to it- Sherlock doesn’t barge into John’s bedroom and demand he stop fornicating with women, nor does Sherlock ask him about it. And really, what’s the point?

Yes John, I’m gay. Next!

“Sorry,” John says, quietly. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s your business, obviously.”

And then he’s getting up, and going- _away,_ but why? No. Stop. He reaches out and grabs John’s wrist before he leaves. “Wait. Stay.”

“You sure? Want me to help you to your room? Can you walk?”

So much talking, why is there so much talking? Sherlock just wants John to sit next to him so he can climb into his lap and bury his nose in his hair. “No. Just stay. Head hurts.”

John complies, the sofa shifts as John fills the empty space next to him again. Maybe he could just fall asleep here. The room is still swaying gently and John smells nice, like he always does, and it makes him feel like allowing gravity to have its way with him, just fall over sideways and right into John’s lap. Head pillowed by John’s pinstriped pyjama-covered thighs.

“Was it…nice,” John asks after a while, and Sherlock hums, looking at him with a quick sideways glance.

“Passably pleasant,” Sherlock allows. “Haven’t done it in a while, nothing to compare it with. Upsetting.”

“A while,” John repeats, his voice heavy with something Sherlock can’t make out.

“ _John,_ ” he drawls. “I can _hear_ you thinking, it’s deafening. It’s fine. Just ask.”

Alright, maybe he can satisfy a _bit_ of his curiosity.

“What? No, no, I’m not- I’m not thinking about…that,” he waves a hand about which must encompass “you having sex”. “I just. I just wonder about you, sometimes. You know, before we met. Before I knew you.”

Oh.

Well.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “You mean when I was a junkie.”

John’s eyes widen fractionally at his choice of words. “No. Not necessarily, at least.”

“Ah, well,” Sherlock leans his head against the sofa and looks up at the ceiling, at the bits of damp that are seeping through, the cracks making their way across it, the tiny fault lines. “My more wayward days,” he feels an uncomfortable smile pull at his mouth. “What can I say. I was…” _lonely._ “Irrelevant,” Sherlock makes a sweeping hand gesture as if to say, _forget about it._ Because he would like John to forget about it. Not that he can, he supposes. You don’t really conveniently _forget_ your flatmate is a former ~~drug addict~~ user. “Irrelevant. You wouldn’t have liked me. _I_ didn’t like me.”

John makes a surprised noise, Sherlock can see from the corner of his eye as he twists to face him properly. “That’s a sweeping assumption to make,” he says, and he sounds a little angry. As if Sherlock is stupid for thinking that there would ever be a moment when John wouldn’t like him.

“You’re always far too kind to me,” Sherlock says, and thinks about his blog posts, about John finding ways to excuse his behaviour at every conceivable turn, about the way he makes Sherlock sound like some kind of hero when he writes about him, and not just a high-functioning sociopath. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like we would have ever met. Unless I was stretched out on a gurney about to go into cardiac arrest and you were standing over me.”

“Hey,” John says, sharply, catching him on the shoulder. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Joking? Sherlock never jokes. Sherlock had overdosed twice before he first met John, it’s not a stretch of the imagination to assume that the only scenario in which they could have met earlier would have involved a trip to the hospital. But perhaps John doesn’t want to think about the most likely scenario. Maybe John doesn’t _want_ to think of Sherlock, pale and shaking, on top of a stretcher. Just like Sherlock hates to think of John bleeding out on a battlefield, begging a non-existent deity to please let him live.

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” John says quickly, and his hand drops. The absence of warmth is jarring. “Anyway. I’m glad that didn’t happen. That you’re here. That you found something…better.”

Are you glad you met me, he wants to ask. But he doesn’t.

Sherlock smiles at him, lets the fondness creep into his face just for a moment. “Me too.”

  
He doesn’t believe in fate, because if a higher power is governing all of this- well. The loss of control is terrifying. Of course, events follow a linear progression. Cause leads to effect. Input leads to output.

But it seems unreal, that something as _ordinary_ as that (well, alright, Sherlock is a man of science but even he can concede that there might be something else at work here) could have dropped John into his life. Whatever led Mike to cross paths with John, all the tiny, innumerable chance events that put Sherlock in the lab that day. Well. He was glad.

 _Me too,_ because otherwise, I wouldn’t have met you, had this. The Work, cases, a warm, comforting presence next to him at all times. The absence of loneliness. Reciprocation is too much to hope for, but Sherlock can live with whatever he has.

***

  
  
Of _all_ the people he could have fallen for, it had to be someone so completely unattainable. He couldn’t possibly shag his flat mate, he knows how these things turn out. Pretty soon there will be suitcases in the foyer and poof! John will be gone.

He's not going to find anyone like John, ever again. There’s just one of him. No one will write blog posts about him where they call him _charming_ and _clever_ and who’s going to praise him when he does something particularly impressive? John manages to indulge even his most abrasive and unpleasant qualities, manages to find him brilliant even when he’s being a bit not good.   
  
John comes home smelling like different women and Sherlock wants to claw off the scent, lie on top of him and press their bodies together. Claim him like a dog pissing over a fire hydrant.

He wants to catalogue the very shape of his smile, the exact shade of his eyes, and he knows what it means and it terrifies him.  
Moriarty makes it clear that romantic entanglement is out of the question. Jim’s already used John to up the stakes once, he’ll be damned if he lets him do it again. John isn’t collateral damage. John deserves more than this.  
  
Besides, if there had been any potential, Sherlock pretty much ruins his chances by jumping off a building.

_I am so desperately in love with you._

He almost says it, but really not the time or the place, and it would be like dropping a burden into his hands, like flinging his heart at John’s feet and idiotically expecting something to come of it. 

Christ, this caring lark though, it will be the death of him.

~~_you machine._ ~~

~~_you machine._ ~~

~~_you machine._ ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are all the cohen references necessary, you ask. yes. yes they are


	5. that lawless crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart finally starts beating again, and all it takes is Sherlock’s familiar smirk, his stupid cheekbones- for him to comfortably settle back into the gap he’d left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some John Watson level repressed pining.

> _And it goes like this- the fourth, the fifth_
> 
> _The minor fall, and the major lift;_

John is going to kill him.

He has a three-seconds fantasy of wrapping his hands around that pale throat and giving it a good squeeze. He settles, instead, for raising his fist and slamming it into his slightly upturned, Patrician nose. Soft flesh under his knuckles; and he doesn’t feel guilty at all. Not when the force of it sends his head snapping backwards; not when it makes him stumble and stagger; not when Sherlock touches his slender fingers to the skin and then looks down at his fingertips smeared with red- and there’s not one bit of surprise on his face. 

John clenches his fist at his side, looks at him, in his tattered grey hoodie and jeans, his heart pounding against his ribs, his throat doing a funny thing that he can’t recognise. 

“Two years,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Two. _Fucking._ Years.”

Sherlock flinches at the vitriol in his voice. Good. John doesn’t dwell on how his face looks terribly gaunt, or that his eyes have dark hollows underneath them or that his strange outfit hangs far more loosely on his frame than it should. Because if John thinks about these things, he will break. And he needs to be furious right now. That keeps him from stepping forward and crushing Sherlock to his chest.

“John,” Sherlock finally says, quietly, and God above, John hasn’t heard his name in that voice for two whole years and the sound of it sends something horribly familiar settling in the pit of his stomach. “I thought of telling you, so many times-”

“Shut up,” John spits, “Just _shut up._ You run off for two years, leave me to grieve and then waltz back in here like everything’s the same? You arrogant, fucking _bastard._ ”

He doesn’t say _how could you_ , he doesn’t say _Did you ever think, for one second, what this would do to me?_ Instead he trembles, right there in the middle of his living room, from rage or relief or some other unidentifiable emotion. Sherlock stands there, head ducked, contrite for _once_ in his life (or is he, John thinks bitterly, because Sherlock is terribly good at _faking_ things) looking out of place and surreal in the midst of all his bland furniture.

And suddenly John can’t stand it. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something else and instead John interrupts him. “Get out. Get out of my house. Leave.”

He can’t look at him anymore. It hurts, right down the middle of his chest to his gut. Like a stone on top of his sternum, choking him. He can feel Sherlock still, and he knows that there are a thousand responses crawling up in his throat. (He would outlive _God_ trying to have the last word) And half of him expects Sherlock to tell John that he’s being ridiculous, if he was so upset then shouldn’t he be happy now, that Sherlock is back? Alive?

He doesn’t say anything at all. John watches from the corner of his eye as his shoulders slump, and he meekly starts to turn around to leave.

 _Yeah,_ John thinks. _Get out, get out, don’t come back here again._ You were dead once, go back to being dead, you selfish _fuck._ John had spent the last two years desperately struggling to accept the fact that the best thing that had ever happened to him- was gone, and now he was going to, what? Welcome him back with open arms? In which universe was that fair? Why is he _always_ the one left behind picking up the pieces?

He can hear Sherlock gasp, and it’s instinctual, the way he turns around, the familiar concern working its way into his chest, the way his breath catches (even after all this time). That’s the sound of Sherlock in pain- and John doesn’t even think twice before rushing forward to grab him by the elbow, lest he pitch forward and onto the floor.

“What’s wrong?” John asks brusquely.

“I-” Sherlock screws his eyes shut, and his hand flies to his abdomen, a grimace on his face. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

John sighs. At the same moment, Sherlock seems to sway a little, and John holds him tighter in alarm. “Christ, Sherlock-” 

John’s fury will have to wait. Not that he cares, personally. He did, after all, take an oath. It’s not like he would just abandon Sherlock to his own devices if he was hurt, even though John wanted to hurt him pretty badly himself. He would do it for anyone. Any other patient. 

He steps around to face him, grabbing both his forearms. He tries not to think about how frail and slender they feel under his hands, or marvel at the fact that he’s touching Sherlock at all. The last time he had, it was to feel his pulse. A pulse that hadn’t been there.

“I’m quite fine, you asked me to leave, why won’t you let me _leave,_ ” Sherlock says weakly, his words laced with pain. 

John searches his face. Pale. His eyes are a bit dazed, and he still can’t seem to stand upright. His blood sugar must be low, he trails his gaze downward, fucking _hell-_

“You’re bleeding,” John says, his voice surprisingly blank.

Crimson seeps through the thin grey material of his hoodie. Sherlock looks down at himself, at the hand that isn’t quite covering the patch of blood that is quickly growing larger. “Oh,” he comments, as though John has told him he’s spilled something on himself. “That explains it. I hadn’t-”

“Shut up,” John mutters, “Just keep your bloody mouth shut,” and leads him backwards, right into his small modular kitchen. He points silently to the bar stool, and Sherlock regards him dumbly for a few moments before he obediently takes a seat. John walks quickly out of there, into the loo, and brings back his first aid kit. Switches the lights on. Stands in front of Sherlock, right between his spread legs. “Take off your shirt.”

Not exactly how he’d imagined this. 

Apparently Sherlock didn’t expect this either, because he blinks at him owlishly, cheeks filling with pink. “For God’s sake,” John snaps. Does he really have to make this even more difficult than it is? 

“Is that really necessary-”

“ _Yes,_ ” John hisses. “Now take your shirt off or I’ll do it for you, and you won’t like it.”

Sherlock arches one dark eyebrow, sends him a look that John can’t read, and then crosses his arms over his head to pull his stupid, loose grey hoodie off. He throws it onto the kitchen island, and then puts his hands in his lap, looking expectantly at John. 

John ignores the pronounced collarbones, the freckles, the delicate blades of his shoulders. He ignores the way his body suddenly ignites at the sight of all that pale skin, and instead focuses on the cut on his lower abdomen. “Who stitched that?” John asks, taking a closer look. The stitches have torn, and the wound is weeping blood profusely. “They did a pretty shit job. It’s a miracle that’s not infected.”

“I did,” Sherlock sighs.

“Evidently. You never were very good at sutures.”

“I didn’t need to be,” Sherlock reminds him quietly.

John’s jaw tightens. “Yeah, well. Just sit still, let me clean this up and stitch it. _Properly._ Or, actually, you should go to an A&E-”

Sherlock suddenly sits up straighter and grabs his arm. “No,” he says, quickly, “No hospitals. Please.”

His eyes are wide and panicked, and that _please_ is uttered with a bit of desperation that John doesn’t like, at all. Sherlock shouldn’t sound like that at the mention of a hospital. “Fine,” he agrees. “Alright. No hospitals. Just. Be still, then. This is going to hurt. I don’t have any painkillers-”

“Not that they would work on me, if you did.” Sherlock leans back, arms behind himself, gripping the edge of the stool, his head tilting upwards towards the ceiling. As if he’s detaching himself from the proceedings. His eyes already have that faraway look.

John inclines his head in agreement. 

He slips on his gloves and cleans the cut, Sherlock hisses and curses under his breath at the sting of alcohol. John tries to be gentle and quick with the needle, though God knows Sherlock doesn’t deserve it. But something about the way his ribs are much more pronounced than they should be, and the fact that abdomen flutters and quivers under the needle, makes him decide against causing him any more discomfort than is warranted.

Not to mention the numerous other scars on his pale torso. Something that looks suspiciously like a smattering of cigarette burns covers his right pectoral. Bruises, now yellow and fading, stamped along his ribs. John’s hands are surprisingly still. Not that Sherlock ever cared. He had stitched him up several times, and Sherlock never complained when his tremor would come back and the stitches came out a bit wonky. 

“There,” John finally says, straightening. “Done.”

Sherlock is pale, his lips practically white. Sweat shines along his hairline. “Thank you,” he whispers, and quickly grabs his hoodie and pulls it over his head.

“Hang on, let me clean up your face. You look like a mess,” John dabs a cotton ball with antiseptic. Why is he doing this. Sherlock would readily walk into the Tube covered with blood, harpoon in tow. He probably doesn’t mind walking out like this, either. 

“If you think it would be prudent,” Sherlock defers, looking up at him, and John hates how his grey eyes look far too big in his face. Or that his heart twists uncomfortably at the blood drying, tacky and dark, right underneath his nose, some of it on his chin. He looks too skinny, too pale, and John doesn’t know what to do with himself.

God, he still hates him a little, though.

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, after a few seconds of silence. John tightens his jaw and continues to dab at the blood on his upper lip. The nose isn’t broken. Pity. Sherlock waits for a few seconds to see if John responds, but when he doesn’t, he continues. “I didn’t expect...I didn’t account for this. You have to know that I simply didn’t think it would manifest in quite this way.”

“What are you talking about,” John says tightly, and grips his chin between index finger and thumb, turns it sharply to the side so he can check if he has any other injuries. He does. John’s insides curl up at the bruises. Finger shaped bruises. Right over his neck, as if someone had tried to strangle him. What the-

“Granted,” Sherlock continues, still and trusting under his hands. “My knowledge of human relationships and emotions is perfunctory at best, but I did calculate a certain grieving period. I knew you would be upset, for a while, but then you’d move on.”

“Upset,” John repeats, and feels a small, sardonic smile stretch his lips, and there, it’s back, the anger. He lets go of Sherlock’s chin, deciding to think about the bruises at a later time. Sherlock turns his head to face him, looking weary, as though John is going to punch him a second time. Tempting. “Upset,” he says again. “Yeah. I was upset. You made me watch while you flung yourself off a building and cracked your head open on the pavement. It made me really _upset_ , looking at all that blood. Stained my clothes. Came home and burnt them, right on our bloody stove.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he goes, if possible, even paler. “John-”

John shakes his head, drops the blood-stained cotton ball on the island, and a slightly manic chuckle makes its way out of mouth. “You made me _watch._ You _killed yourself_ in front of me. Or pretended to, at least. What did you think, hmm? That I’d just, what, _move on_ from that?”

John thinks of how those cold, unseeing grey eyes had haunted his dreams for months. He thinks about Sherlock’s funeral, how they made him stand up in front of the small group of people and give him a eulogy, and how John couldn’t even get through a quarter of it. Brave man, wise man, what did any of it matter? He was _dead._ And the last thing John had done was call him a machine. 

Sherlock purses his lips as he looks up at him, and John notices a half-healed cut above his left eyebrow. It looks deep. Might have been made with a knife. John’s fingers shake. Where on earth had he been? 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, and it’s so sudden and unexpected that John’s mouth falls a little. “I truly am sorry for what I put you through. But I’m not sorry that I did it. If I could choose. I would do it again.”

Sherlock’s gaze locks into his eyes, fever bright and determined, and John feels dizzy with rage. “And _what,_ ” he spits, seconds away from shouting. “Is that supposed to-”

“Three snipers,” Sherlock holds up three fingers in emphasis. His middle finger is bent at an angle that suggests a badly healed broken bone. “One on Ms Hudson, one on Lestrade, and one on you. If I hadn’t jumped, Moriarty would have had you all killed. So. There was no other way. I had to do it. I didn’t want to. But if I wanted you alive, I had to.”

_What?_

“You could have told me,” John says automatically, his voice still trembling.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I really couldn’t have.”

“I could have-”

“ _John._ ” Sherlock reaches forward and curls a hand around his wrist. His palm is dry, John can feel the familiar callouses on his skin. Sherlock looks up at him from underneath his lashes, and John doesn’t really know how he feels anymore. “It had to be convincing. If, for a second, they figured out you were shamming, they’d kill you. And it would have all been for nothing. Do you understand? And I couldn’t come back, not until I had taken down the rest of Moriarty’s network.”

“Jesus Christ,” John breathes, perching on the edge of the island. Sherlock’s hand is still around his wrist. He’s slightly grateful for it. “Jesus. You. Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you.”

Sherlock’s smile is soft and sad. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Because you’re still a selfish prick.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And you still lied to me. You still made me watch.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock’s smile fades and his eyes look a little red. “I know.”

“Okay. Fine.” John nods. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Sherlock’s hand drops away, and John doesn’t like that at all. He grabs his first aid box and strides out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. Maybe to drown himself a little in the shower. Or to bang his head against a wall. This is. This is all too much. He sits on the edge of his bed for a long time, trying to get his breathing back to normal. 

***

He comes back to find Sherlock in the living room, fidgeting awkwardly, clearly preparing to leave. “I’ll- I’ll see you later, then,” he says, and immediately afterwards, stumbles. He doesn’t fall, but John can clearly see that Sherlock won’t be able to make it home at this rate.

“Sherlock,” John begins carefully, already hating himself. “If you go home like this, you’re going to keel over before you get there.”

“I’ll be fine, John. You stitched me up- and everything,” he waves his hand at his stomach. 

“I’m being serious. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re at least three shades paler, which is surprising, considering you look like a vampire anyway. My medical opinion is that. You should. Stay. Here.” 

Sherlock does a quick double take, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t stay here.”

“Just,” John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just take the sofa, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns and looks at the sofa like it’s something horrifying. “You want me to sleep on your sofa?”

“I want you to not faint on the street. Look, just, could you listen to me, for once? Stay. Sleep. It’s late, I’m tired, my best friend just came back from the dead. I’ve had a rough day.”

Sherlock stills, mouth quirking a little, his eyes doing a strange blinking thing that has John half-fearing he’s having a seizure. “Best friend,” Sherlock repeats, his voice just one level above a whisper. His lower lip trembles.

John frowns at him. Had John never told him-? How could he have ever thought otherwise? John literally has no other friends besides Sherlock. John had shot a man for him on the very first day he met him. John willingly followed him into danger every time he asked. John’s life had completely fallen apart as soon as Sherlock was gone.

 _Best friend_ was kind of trite, actually. 

“Of course you’re my best friend,” John says. “Though I’m not too thrilled with you right now.”

Sherlock nods quickly. “Of course. Of course, I understand. It’s just, I’ve never-” he clears his throat. “I’ve never been anyone’s best friend before.”

John is too exhausted to discuss this right now. Any other time, or rather, two years ago, John would have sat down with him and explained that people are idiots, and that Sherlock was just too damn special for the lot of them, and they didn’t deserve the honour of his friendship anyway, but right now, John is tired, and he still feels like he’s in grieving, and as much as he wants to say _screw it_ and hug him, he’s still fucking pissed.

“I know,” he says instead. And then, “Well, I’m going to bed. Goodnight. There’s a blanket on the coffee table.”

He sees Sherlock’s wide-eyed look once more before escaping to his bedroom.

***

Of course he can’t sleep. It’s past three am and John hasn’t slept at _all._

How can he, knowing that Sherlock is in his living room. Sherlock. _Alive._ It still doesn’t feel real.

John gets up and tells himself he needs a glass of water. 

He thinks Sherlock will be awake. Maybe part of him had even hoped for it. When they lived together, he could hear him clattering about at all hours of the night. When he’d wake up in the middle of the night, gasping and sweating and tangled in bedsheets, he wasn’t met with stifling quiet. Instead, there was Sherlock; his muffled curses, minor explosions, the tinkle of chemistry equipment. It was strangely comforting. To know he wasn’t alone in this new flat. 

But instead he’s fast asleep, curled underneath the blanket, drawn into a tight ball. Natural. Sherlock is exhausted from blood loss and malnutrition. Dehydrated too, probably. John should have checked.

He’s too tall to fit comfortably there on the sofa. John had known that, and he’d made him sleep there anyway. It had given him a little vindictive rush of pleasure. _Serves him right,_ he’d thought.

He feels a little guilty now.

John has already forgiven him. He knows this, just like he knows the sun goes around the Earth and that Sherlock’s birth certificate says he has grey eyes but they’re actually at least six colours at the same time. And it shouldn’t be this easy. It _shouldn’t._ He hates himself, a little, for how it doesn’t even cross his mind to stay furious with him, to refuse to let him back into his life.

But he’d be lying to himself, if he thought that would make any of this better.

Sherlock had done all of this, whatever he had been doing the last two years- for him. And of course John had always known that Sherlock wasn’t as selfish as he claimed to be, and that “sociopath” was just a convenient phrase he threw around to absolve himself of responsibility- but still, it makes something precarious inside of him tumble and fall, to know why he did it in the first place.

John perches on the edge of the coffee table, finds himself staring at Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock gives a particularly loud snore. John can feel the fond smile creeping into his face. _Traitor,_ he thinks. He’d resigned himself to never hearing that sound again. Not that he really got many opportunities to hear it, except on the rare occasions they’d share a bed, and once, very memorably, when he’d passed out after Irene Adler had injected him with some unknown substance and he’d had to sleep it off.

He’d been fucking jealous. Obviously, at the time, he thought he was just pissed at Sherlock for being the object of her attention- she was, after all, a gorgeous woman, and John liked gorgeous women. It hadn’t taken him too long to realise what it actually was, and then violently suppress it. 

It’s oddly endearing to look at him sleeping. 

_Sometimes I didn’t even think you were human._

He looks pretty human now. Terrifyingly so. His expression slack and oddly innocent, hardly any lines on his face. He looks years younger. John’s eyes linger over his too-long hair (it had always been an unruly mess, at odds with the rest of him, but this is a bit much, even for him) his sharper-than-usual cheekbones. The stubble prickling over his jaw, his upper lip. He seems far too fragile and breakable for his liking. He’d seemed invincible to him, for so long. Bit difficult to think someone is invincible when they’re lying in a pool of their own blood, though. 

There’s a hard lump in his throat that he can find no explanation for. 

For some unaccountable reason, John has to reach forward and touch him. Gently, he doesn’t want to wake him. He brushes some of that hair back from his forehead. 

Sherlock stirs, and John’s hand shoots back immediately. Silver eyes crack open, stare at him blearily.

“ _Jzoh_?” he slurs.

“Hey. Go back to sleep.”

“Hmm. Mm kay.” Sherlock’s arm, stretched out over the edge of the sofa, reaches out with no sense of direction and yet his warm fingers find John’s. Squeeze. John’s eyes graze over the knuckles, which are split open and scabbed over. Razor-thin cuts along his fingers, like Sherlock had dipped his hand into a bucket of tiny blades.

“John,” he says again, and falls back to sleep. 

John stays there for the longest time, their fingers twisted together, watching him, watching him. It’s ridiculous. He’s obviously alive, right here, in his sofa, in his flat. And yet for some ridiculous reason John is half afraid he’ll vanish right in front of his eyes, dissipate into smoke. 

***

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Sherlock says, pale fingers around his cup of tea. His eyes dart around the living room, mouth tipped up in a small smile. Oh. He’s being sarcastic, isn’t he? For someone who could never discern it, Sherlock could wield it with terrifying alacrity.

John breathes through his nose and looks around himself, wondering what Sherlock sees. He doesn’t think he could pick it apart as easily as he thinks. After all, there isn’t much of John in the flat at all. It had come pre-furnished. 

“Well,” John shrugs, staring at the fireplace, with its gleaming mantelpiece and unblemished wood. “It’s a roof over my head.”

Sherlock hums next to him. He’d just woken up, still in his clothes from yesterday, sitting on the sofa with the blanket hanging precariously over his lap. John had all but pushed a cup of tea into his hands. He’s not sure why. He may have forgiven him, but a) Sherlock can stew for a little while, and b) he doesn’t deserve a John-made cup of tea so soon. And yet. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, and his head tips upwards to glance at the ceiling. “No damp. Certainly a point in its favour.”

John feels his throat swell uncomfortably. He feels a little embarrassed, of this flat of his. At the emptiness of it. The sterile walls and the nice furniture, the matching curtains and cushions. It’s too bright, too clean, not comforting at all. No bisons on the wall and no leering skulls, and John is suddenly aware of how wrong it all feels. It’s suddenly so obvious with Sherlock next to him. How had he managed to live here for so long?

“The flat,” Sherlock’s voice is careful, cautious. John turns to him, and sees him staring very intensely into his cup of tea. “It was empty. The rent was all paid up. You could have just stayed there.”

A hard band tightens around his ribs. “You can’t be serious.”

He is, the fucking twat, he actually has the audacity to look up at him, a little frown between his eyebrows and John would have found it a little adorable if he wasn’t so fucking pissed at him suddenly.

Of course, to him, it must seem terribly logical; why spend money on a new flat when 221B was right there? John doesn’t have the strength to explain. How, exactly, is he going to tell him about the voices, about the ghost of Sherlock flitting from room to room, the silence that settled over the flat like a terminal illness? Or how, after he’d had the chemistry equipment packed up and sent away, he couldn’t bear to look at that empty dining table, devoid of experiments and Sherlock’s gleaming microscope?

Dust; not so eloquent when it covers the flat, all of his things, turns their mad circus of a home into a mausoleum. 

“Turns out I can’t sleep very well without impromptu violin concertos in the middle of the night,” he deflects. 

Sherlock grins at him; a ghost of his old one, and it looks odd on his narrow, gaunt face. But he’s still _here,_ real and alive and his silver eyes flashing with something of his old wit and mischief, and suddenly John is no longer pissed.

Sherlock put him through hell for two years and all he wants to do is push him against the sofa and kiss him senseless. Anchor his body to his own, press his nose to the side of his neck and reassure himself that he’s really, really here, that he’s not just seeing things. 

His heart finally starts beating again, and all it takes is Sherlock’s familiar smirk, his stupid cheekbones- for him to comfortably settle back into the gap he’d left. 

***

He’s more or less the same, and yet he’s changed. More careful with his words, deliberate where he’d never been before. _Considerate,_ John wants to say, but when has Sherlock ever been considerate? More willing to compromise- and Christ, it’s an improvement but sometimes John wants his rash, reckless, arrogant arsehole of a detective back.

***

But things got in the way, and they’ve both changed, and you can’t really go back to the way things were before, can you?

***

He expects that it will take time, a few weeks at least, for them to settle back into any familiar discernible pattern. John doesn’t think about the Work at first. In the beginning, in the months following Sherlock’s death, when he’d started to feel half-way human again, he’d update his blog with old cases. The ones he’d written up but deemed too boring to actually publish. But they were all he had left, and Sherlock’s loyal followers deserved something for their unwavering trust.

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes._

Thank you, he tells them, in a short post. Thank you for believing in him. He probably would have scoffed and called all of you idiots, but deep (deep) inside he would have been touched.

Of course, John had thought bitterly, now he’ll never know for sure.

But nonetheless- Sherlock can be very charming and persuasive when he wants to be. John would know, because he’s seen him laying it on thick an ample number of times. The weepy, the disgruntled, the distraught, no one was safe from Sherlock’s manipulation. 

And he wants to say it is _manipulation,_ the way Sherlock convinces him, so easily, to join him on a case. _You’ve missed this,_ he tells him, when he’s over for a cup of tea, all crooked smiles and flashing eyes. _Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through our veins. You still want to see some more._ A knowing smirk, the tilt of his head, and John is just. Gone.

Join me for this one, John, it’s brilliant, you’ll see. They cut him up in four parts and then deep fried him.

John, Lestrade called me this morning. Definitely an 8.5, I think someone’s been training a squirrel to steal jewellery.

 _John._ Decapitation in Surrey. _John._ Someone’s pretending to be a vampire in Sussex. _John,_ ten suspects. Ten! 

Each time, John drops everything and follows. This is ridiculous. He has a job. Working hours. Sherlock can go piss off and wait for him to get off from work.

Before he knows it, John is starting to get those familiar strict emails from his boss. Not Sarah, not since she got married and moved to Scotland. (He should have been jealous, right? Ex-flame falling in love and getting settled? Except he hadn’t. When she’d told him, it had barely been a year since Sherlock’s ‘death’ and he’d been relieved. He didn’t have to look at Sarah anymore and keep remembering Chinese acrobats.)

So, this is probably why he finds himself cramped next to Sherlock behind a skip, on a stakeout that’s reaching the six hour mark where John desperately needs to get up for a piss, and something to eat.

Sherlock is vibrating next to him, all restless nervous energy and John thinks it’s anticipation, or impatience, or something of the sort. Sherlock hates stakeouts. There’s nothing to do except sit and _wait,_ and Sherlock hates waiting.

John is just about to snap at him to keep still, because they’re very close together and it’s difficult to think as it is (it’s been ages since he’s smelled Sherlock’s old, fancy shampoo. He has to stop himself several times from leaning in closer and taking a whiff) when Sherlock suddenly bursts, turning to him and whisper-shouting.

“Why won’t you move back? Your room is exactly as you left it. Your flat in Chiswick is absolute rubbish. Both of us know this. Why won’t you just…” Sherlock stops, his eyes wide and bright with sincerity and something else John can’t quite put his finger on. He sounds a little desperate. “Why won’t you just come back?”

John licks his lips, staring at him, wondering how to put his answer into words. It’s kind of simple, really: he didn’t know how to ask. He didn’t know if he was ready. If _Sherlock_ was ready. 

He mumbles something about not being able to afford it because Sherlock doesn’t let him even keep halfway-decent hours at the clinic, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be daft,” he mutters, not quite looking at him. “221B is your home.” A roll of opalescent eyes. “And Ms Hudson will be thrilled.”

And that’s that.

***

“Where are you going?” 

John was just about to leave. He stops and turns around, hand dropping from the doorknob to face Sherlock. He’d thought he was asleep. Or rearranging his Mind Palace, probably. He’s still in the same position, lithe body stretched out on the sofa in one long, sinewy line, pale hands clasped underneath his chin. Except his eyes are now open and alert, looking at John suspiciously. 

“All my old things are at the flat,” John explains. He doesn’t think he’d ever referred to it as “home”. The flat had suited just fine. 

“Why are you throwing facts at me? I asked you a question.”

John rolls his eyes, heaves a long suffering sigh. “My old things. That used to be here, in the room upstairs,” he points upwards. “Remember? Now they’re back at the Chiswick place. I have to bring them back here. We don’t have any cases, it’s Sunday, I thought I’d get it done today.”

“Oh,” Sherlock suddenly sits up, arms dropping to his sides. “Will you be requiring assistance?”

And what is _that,_ that trace of eagerness in Sherlock’s voice, that strangely pleading look in his eyes? John briefly thinks back to his flat, wondering if maybe some particularly interesting patch of mould was growing in the kitchen or something. Maybe Sherlock wanted to harvest some.

“Assistance?” he repeats. “I don’t...I don’t think so. There aren’t a lot of things to assist with.”

He adds that last bit quietly. He doesn’t really want Sherlock to be back in that awful, empty flat, with the bare walls and the fridge full of actual food. The boring furniture. Once they’d start going through his things, it would be pitifully clear how extremely dull John’s life had been without him. 

“Doesn’t matter, I’m bored,” Sherlock insists, leaping out of the sofa as though Greg had just stepped into the flat and asked for his help with a new case. “Could be interesting.”

Helping a mate move is most definitely _not_ Sherlock’s idea of interesting. But John doesn’t want to refuse him, not when Sherlock is hurriedly shrugging out of his dressing gown as he sweeps out of the living room and into his bedroom to change. John watches his retreating back, and mentally replays the way the gown had just slipped off his shoulders in a rush of silk. John had always wondered about that, because Sherlock never really wore it properly. It was always hanging off of him precariously, as though John would just have to flick his finger and it would slide off.

***

“You should definitely get rid of these, John,” Sherlock tells him, a disgusted grimace on his face, even as he stacks the collection of mystery novels one on top of the other, very carefully, and places them inside a cardboard box. 

John, who’s kneeling in front of him surrounded by a different pile of books- old medical texts from his university days- gives him a withering look. “That’s actually a good idea, considering you’ve already told me, in detail, about the plot of each of those books before I’d even had a chance to read them.”

Sherlock looks impressed with his older self at this bit of information. “Well, what did you expect? It’s practically obvious from the excerpt itself,” he defends, folding the flaps together and running the duct tape reel over them. 

John watches the flurry of his pale, slender fingers, the look of utmost concentration on his face. Fondness spreads through his body, settles into his very extremities. Trust Sherlock to treat all of this as simply another experiment- his tongue flicks out as he drags another box towards himself to fill it with more books and John watches that, as well. Pale pink and resting delicately against his full bottom lip. 

“This is my book,” Sherlock suddenly says, and holds up a copy of some thick hardback with a French title, peering at it disbelievingly. And then he seems to notice the other books around him, and his eyebrows shoot up, almost disappearing under his curls. “These are all mine! Why...why do you have them?”

John feels the back of his neck heat up. He quickly grabs the book in Sherlock’s hand, embarrassed, dumps it into the nearest empty box. He does that with the rest of the books around them; he doesn’t even give a cursory glance over the titles. Just grabs and dumps.

“John?” Sherlock asks, cautiously.

John sighs, one forearm resting over the edge of a box, _Grey’s Anatomy_ clutched in his grasp. “I just,” he doesn’t meet his eyes. “Mycroft wanted to pack it all up and put it away. And I, well,” he clears his throat. “The chemistry equipment and your old experiments, that was fine. What was I going to do with your microscope? But your books. There were lots of them, and I had the space, and I, I don’t know. I just wanted to keep something of yours. Mycroft took away your violin, too. So I really had nothing.”

He feels very warm. John considers taking off his jumper. He also considers simply getting up and leaving the room. But this, what he did, it’s normal, isn’t it? He’s just keeping his best mate’s books. People do that. Maybe not for the reason that he did, but they still do. It’s true that John wanted to touch them because Sherlock’s fingers had once passed over those covers too, so in a way, he would be touching him.

And that was a little unhealthy.

“I know it’s silly. It’s not like I even read any of them,” John shakes his head, and finally looks up, and his heart stills. Sherlock is looking at him, slack jawed and wide-eyed and he very, very rarely sees him look like that. Surprise is an expression that one rarely finds on Sherlock Holmes’ face. He is never caught off guard.

This time, though.

“You,” he says, softly. “You kept my books.”

John nods. “Yeah.”

Sherlock shifts a bit, onto his haunches, reaches behind himself and extracts his wallet from his back-pocket. John frowns, watches as Sherlock reaches into it and picks out...a button. John’s frown deepens as Sherlock suddenly takes his hand, and drops the button into it. John doesn’t have time to relish the brief brush of their skin because Sherlock’s hand drops away immediately after that.

John stares down at the button. Nothing special about it. Brown, plastic. He gives Sherlock a questioning look. “Um. What-?”

“It’s yours.”

“ _Mine?_ ”

“From one of your cardigans.”

John continues to stare at him, feeling distinctly light headed. 

“I didn’t know it was there. Must have plucked it off for an experiment and forgotten about it. And then, back in some rubbish clinic in Brazil, I needed some painkillers. Broke my wrist,” he explains, at John’s expression. “They kept saying they wanted the money up front. I started emptying my wallet out on the help desk. I was a bit low on funds at the time, you see. And. And this button fell out. I knew instantly it was yours.”

John blinks a few times. “And you kept it?” A pause. “ _Why_?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Same reason you kept my books, I suppose.”

***

He doesn’t have to bend over quite like that, he thinks, as Sherlock peers into the contents of his fridge. Does he really have to bend over like that? “Your cheese has gone a bit dodgy. I’m taking it,” Sherlock decides. He reaches inside and brings out the, yes, mouldy looking cheese, and places it carefully on the dining table. “You won’t let me use the cheese back at home.”

“That’s because I’m planning to eat the cheese,” John informs him, stepping into the kitchen and taking stock of all the appliances. They have most of this stuff. Maybe he could ask Ms Hudson if she could use an extra toaster.

“What are you going to do about the rest of all this food?” he can hear Sherlock ask behind him.

“Check if anything else has gone bad, you can take it home. And the rest, I don’t know, we’ll have to eat it, I suppose,” John tells him absently, turning over an electric beater in his hand. Do they have one? He can’t remember. He turns around to ask Sherlock, (although he doubts he would know) but then his mouth goes completely dry.

Sherlock is holding a tub of ice cream in his hand. Plain vanilla. John doesn’t recall ever buying it. Sherlock doesn’t notice John staring at him, because he seems very engrossed in dipping a spoon into the sweet mess and then sticking it into his mouth. John’s fingers tighten around the electric beater. Sherlock's mouth is cupped over the back of the spoon, he drags it ever so slowly out of his mouth. Does he know he’s doing that? He must know he’s doing that.

“We can keep this,” he tells him, oblivious of the way John’s stomach has dropped right down to his feet. 

“Okay,” John says stoically. Sherlock puts the spoon back inside the tub and screws the lid back on. He puts it down on the counter top, and then grins at John, apparently delighted with the ice cream. His eyes drag down to the beater. 

“Why are you holding it like that?” 

“Huh?” 

Sherlock frowns at him, and steps closer, and John thinks wildly for a moment that he’s going to kiss him. But he doesn’t. Of course. He takes the beater out of John’s hand and looks at him as though he thinks he’s gone a little bit mad. “You seem attached to this. I’ll put it in the boxes, then.” 

John mumbles something unintelligible in response, and Sherlock just gives him another squinty eyed concerned look, and continues to scan the kitchen for anything else he can salvage for an experiment. His eyes catch on John’s blender, and he makes a grab for it. “We hardly need two blenders,” he says wisely. “Can I use this for experiments?”

“Polite of you to ask,” John says weakly.

Sherlock scoffs. “I’m always polite.”

That brings John out of his reverie and he snorts. “Sure you are. Fine. Keep the blender. Just. Clean up after you’re done, okay? You never clean up.”

Sherlock looks put off by this, but acquiesces nonetheless, and runs off from the kitchen with the blender like it’s loot.

John stares at him, and stares at him, and his chest hurts. He thinks he might be having chest palpitations, but that’s not it.

Fucking hell.

He’s in love with Sherlock.

And that admission should do something to him, right? It should rearrange something inside of his head, it should be soul shattering, life-altering stuff. John tries hard to see if it feels any different. It doesn’t. It doesn’t change anything, actually. It’s like John just realised something extremely obvious.

Of course he’s in love with him. He’d been in love with him since the day they met. Right from the moment Sherlock’s razor-sharp gaze had flicked over him and he’d stripped him apart, so very slowly, and it had felt like the best kind of violation. Right from the day they met, Sherlock had made it so difficult to not love him, with his billowing coat and his sparkling eyes, awakening something inside of him that he didn’t even know existed. 

He’s in love with Sherlock, he says again, inside his head. Well, shit. Now what?

“John, for _God’s sake,_ you don’t need this many jumpers!”

***

But Sherlock had said “married to my work” and “not my area” the very first day they’d met, and John had retracted his awkward, fumbling advances. _Not for everyone,_ he’d said. But apparently it hasn’t mattered. And for the years that’d followed he’d said “I’m not gay”, holding it out like some kind of talisman because he thought it would stop Sherlock from looking too closely and _deducing._

But then he had still gone and slept with a client, and John still doesn’t understand why. If him, why not me?

He remembers it, vividly, remembers Sherlock saying that the wanker was persistent and he was bored, and he’d often thought, after that: so is that all it takes? If you’re bored enough and I ask you enough times, will you let me touch you? Will you let me grab you by the hips, push you against that wall over there, snog you senseless until you can’t say your own name?

Would you let me fuck you? If I was _persistent._ Would you just, let me take you to bed and push you down on the mattress, and kiss you, and would you let me take those slender wrists and pull them up on either side of your head, knock your legs apart, push into you, make you beg for mercy-

But.

_But._

Maybe Sherlock has needs, like everyone else, he’d thought. Maybe, once in a while, Sherlock’s libido makes an appearance like the Loch Ness monster and he goes out on the prowl for a shag. Maybe it was just a one time experiment, because he doesn’t remember it ever happening again. John would have noticed.

If that were the case, John wouldn’t be able to take it. Because John isn’t here for a casual, one-time fuck. John wants everything. He had assumed it would be enough, this best-mate business. 

But it’s not. It’s not enough. John may not be the most luminous of people, but he knows this like he knows the number of freckles on Sherlock’s neck.

***

John wonders, but he doesn’t pester, or ask questions. Like that time, what seems like ages ago, when some piece of shit had Sherlock up against dirty brickwork and the sight of it had made something vengeful and murderous rip apart in his chest. It wasn’t curiosity, exactly, but the lack of knowledge, yes, it made him uncomfortable, because somehow, over the years, it had become kind of his responsibility. Protecting him. Yeah, okay, Sherlock had a black belt in Judo and he was a boxer, (and he was an expert at _fencing,_ for some strange reason)- he could take care of himself, but he was also a reckless idiot.

But sometimes Sherlock will stare into space for long seconds, eyes vacant and unseeing, and it’s not the look he has on his face when he’s rearranging his mind palace or thinking about a case. John knows that look. Sherlock is somewhere faraway. Somewhere he shouldn’t be. Somewhere he probably never left.

On very, very rare occasions, John will make a sudden movement- leaning over him to grab the remote, raising his hand to pick something out of his hair, grabbing his wrist to stop him from running into a burning building to save evidence- and Sherlock will flinch. 

It’s barely perceptible. But John is observant. 

He knows it has something to do with the two years he was away, and part of him wants to ask and the other part is afraid of what he will receive as an answer. John still thinks about the bruises he’d seen the day he came back. 

But one night, they’re sharing a bed in a run-down inn at Bristol and he’s suddenly awakened by the sound of Sherlock whimpering next to him. He immediately sits up, looks at Sherlock, who is currently twisting and turning, fingers flexing at his sides, his forehead damp with sweat. His lips are moving, and at first John can’t tell what words they’re forming, but the moment he leans in closer his heart stops. 

_Stop, please, stop, stop-_

He tries not to let the panic dictate his actions and rattle Sherlock bodily awake. Instead, he gently grabs a shoulder and he gradually tries a little harder. “Sherlock,” he calls. “Sherlock, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

But John thinks it must be something much worse for the way Sherlock’s eyes snap open and they’re bloodshot and terrified, the way his hands instinctively reach up to guard his face. Sherlock looks up at John hovering over his body and John doesn’t think he knows who he is for a moment. 

“It’s me,” he says gently. “It’s me, John. You were having a nightmare. But you’re fine. We’re in an inn in Bristol. We just finished solving a case. You’re safe.”

“John?” Sherlock says, almost curiously. 

“Yep. That’s me. You’re safe.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s hands drop down from their position in front of his face. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly. John holds his gaze, because Sherlock can’t seem to look anywhere else. His eyes fix on his rather desperately, as if John is the only thing in the room that feels real to him.

“Sorry,” he finally says, after several long seconds, and John resists the urge to shout at him, to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, that John knows how it feels and he wants to help, and please tell me what happened so we can get through this together. “I don’t know why-”

John sighs, and falls down next to him, back on his pillow. His own heart is thundering underneath his chest. Sherlock is trembling, very, very lightly, John can feel it where their arms are pressed against each other. Must be the remnants of adrenaline in his system. He can smell him; the musky scent of sweat and fear, and John suddenly feels like pulling him against his chest, tucking him underneath his chin and hiding him from the entire world.

“We both know why,” he says quietly into the darkness of the room. Sherlock takes a sharp exhale next to him. “And I think,” he pauses. Waits for Sherlock to interrupt him. He doesn’t. “I think that if you told me, you might feel a little better.”

Sherlock is silent for a long time. So long, in fact, that John thinks he might have drifted off to sleep again.

“I killed people,” he finally hears him whisper. John tenses. “When I was away.”

John doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t say, _So what? I did too._

“Well. I’m sure they weren’t very nice people.” 

“No,” Sherlock agrees, resolutely. John can feel their fingertips brush. “They weren’t.”

And after a few more unbearable moments, Sherlock tells him in a low, halting voice about Serbia, and Brazil, and New Mexico, and John feels that familiar protective rage simmer underneath his skin. Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, this madman he loves so desperately, had been out there, alone,and John had been miles and miles away, unable to do a _thing._

It feels like he’s failed on some deep, fundamental level. They were supposed to be a team, and Sherlock had half of it missing.

“So now you understand,” Sherlock tells him, afterwards. “Why I couldn’t bring you along. It was far too dangerous. If something had happened to you, I would never be able to live with myself.”

John sniffs. “That wasn’t your call to make. Do you think we live very safe lives, you and I?”

Sherlock is silent. He’s not sure if that’s his usual sullen “I won’t answer because I’m not going to dignify your idiocy with a response” or acceptance. 

“The very first night we met,” John says, around a swallow. “You said, _could be dangerous._ Do you remember?”

“Of course.”

“And I came.”

He knows Sherlock is smiling, even though he can’t see it. “Like the cavalry.”

“So. I would have done it again. If you’d asked.”

Sherlock’s hand cups over his, and it feels very natural, to be touching him like this. “I know,” he says, so quiet he half thinks he isn’t meant to hear it. 

But from the way Sherlock squeezes his hand, he is.

***


	6. killers in high places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s hands are lovely. John always finds his eyes drawn to them, the long, pale fingers. The chemical burns and the callouses, rough hands. The hands of a scientist. His near translucent skin, the dark veins underneath. Old scars and bruises, from days that John doesn’t like to think about, because he wasn’t there. Because Sherlock was younger and even more reckless and John might have lost him before even knowing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up: the last chapter MIGHT get split in two on account of how enormous it is, but I promise that'll be the last of the annoying increasing chapter count.

> _And it's not a cry that you hear at night  
>  It's not somebody who's seen the light  
>  It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

John goes on dates.

He’s not really sure he wants to. Especially after his enormous epiphany. Because they already go on cases, they’re living together again, and John is once again running off every week with a woman. (He doesn't bring them to the flat, not anymore. Not since Sherlock had sulked that one time and locked himself inside his room for an entire day)

But it just feels like John is resigning himself to a lifetime of this, working out his frustration on these poor women who think that John has something serious in mind. Of looking at Sherlock until longing claws at his sides, until it takes every ounce of self control he has not to simply leap across the room, push Sherlock against the sofa, right into the cushions, and smash their lips together until neither of them can breathe.

Surprisingly, nothing much has actually changed. Sherlock still stands far too close to him at crime scenes. People still mistake them for a couple. John still feels like all the adrenaline pumping through them after a good case could actually lead to something.

It doesn’t. It’s been almost four months since Sherlock’s miraculous return and John is trapped. At least Sherlock isn’t sleeping with any more lecherous clients. Not that he knows of, at least. And it should make him glad. But John isn’t a genius, so it could mean anything. 

So he dates. Because there’s nothing else to do when not working a case or he’s not at the clinic.It’s not ideal. But it’s fine. That’s what he tells himself, at least.

But then Sherlock will do something so terribly normal, like yawn and stretch his arms above his head, and John’s eyes will be drawn to the pale strip of skin just above his waistband, and his body will sing with want. Christ, he’d imagined it so many times, touching him. Fucking him. 

Long legs wrapped his waist, those violinist’s fingers slipping into his mouth. Sherlock’s tongue at his ear, the sounds he’d make as John shoved inside of him. His broken voice moaning pornographic things like “ _harder, John,”_ or “ _more, John, please.”_

His mouth around Sherlock, swallowing him down and bringing him to a slow, shuddering release, impatient fingers tugging at his hair; Sherlock shivering and mindless and very, very human.

He was supposed to have learnt to control it, but it’s Sherlock after all. John never had much of a will of his own where Sherlock was concerned. 

***

“John,” Lestrade says one day, over a beer. “You have to tell him.”

“Tell who what.”

Lestrade gives him a disgusted look, spreads his fingers wide over the greasy table they’re sitting on either side of, and leans in closer.

“Oh, right, because apparently we live in an alternate universe where you haven’t been in love with your flatmate for the past three years.”

John’s ears go warm. “You,” he says slowly. “Have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Lestrade snorts. “Don’t I?” He takes an enormous gulp of beer and narrows his eyes at John. Sometimes John, like Sherlock, forgets that Lestrade is actually a decent detective. “We all grieved, you know. Me, Ms. Hudson. And Anderson went a little loony,” a comically dark look passes over his eyes. “Anyway. We grieved. But we moved on, after a few months. You know. Of course it was still pretty shite. But I had to build back my career, and the others, well. But John, you. It was like you were mourning a lover. You hardly went out. You stopped going to work. You didn’t go out to meet anyone, at all, not even for one measly date. Even _Mycroft Holmes_ came by to check on you.”

John opens his mouth to protest hotly but Lestrade holds up a hand. “There are a lot of things I ignore. I ignore the fact that I know very well who shot the cabbie from the pink lady case, for example. But yeah. The one thing I’m getting sick of is ignoring is the way the both of you have been pining after each other for actual _years_.”

“Sherlock’s not doing any pining,” John mutters into his beer, and ignores Lestrade’s vaguely pitying look.

***

He still hasn’t got rid of his terrible habit of entering rooms without knocking. He’d always wondered why, wasn’t Sherlock afraid of suddenly walking in on John starkers, or having a wank, or doing something- anything- that people do in private? John knows he’s always been terrified of doing the exact same thing. He’s not sure what he would do if he ever walked in on _Sherlock_ having a wank.

Join in, probably.

Sherlock throws the bathroom door open, and John turns to him in alarm, razor still clasped in his hand, shaving foam covering his cheeks and chin. 

“We’re-” Sherlock starts, and then stops. 

John stares right back at him, and notices the faintest tinge of pink in Sherlock’s cheeks. Why- oh, right. John only has a towel around his waist. Sherlock’s eyes do a quick flick-top to bottom- and then seem to drag themselves reluctantly back to his face. 

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock hasn’t said anything for a full five seconds. (A record) Instead, he blinks rapidly, mumbles something under his breath, and quickly flees, shutting the door behind himself.

What on earth? 

Sherlock can’t have suddenly developed a sense of propriety- not the man who occasionally walks around the flat dressed in nothing but a sheet and had turned up to Buckingham Palace in the self-same sheet. And no pants, John seems to recall vividly. Maybe he’d been thrown off by the sight of his scar. John looks at it in the bathroom mirror, and admits that for someone who’s not expecting it, it might be a bit of a shock. All pink and ugly and gnarled. Not that Sherlock has much of an aversion to things like that. After all, Sherlock willingly plunges his hands into dead peoples’ bodies on a daily basis. 

John sighs, and sets the razor against his chin.

The next second, the door is once again thrown open. “Jesus Christ, what _is_ it,” John snaps.

“Hurry up, we have a case,” Sherlock tells him. John frowns at him. Sherlock looks back, almost challengingly, keeping his eyes resolutely on his face.

“Sherlock-”

“It’s a six but we haven’t had a good one in over a week. So. Get dressed.”

Sherlock starts to close the door but John says, loudly, “I’ve got a date.”

He pauses, and then the door swings open a little more. “A date,” Sherlock repeats, and then he gives him another once over, much slower this time. _Ah,_ John can see it click in his head. Strange, that he hadn’t deduced it the moment he saw him hunched over his sink with the razor in his hand.

“So?” he shakes his head as though John has just filled his head with an irritating thought. “We could go out to dinner afterwards, if we wrap it up quickly. That Greek place you like.”

The way Sherlock says it...implies that their Post-Case dinner would be a substitution for his date. The date he has with a woman. A woman he most definitely will try to convince to have sex with him. Sherlock looks expectantly at him, and the trace of hopefulness in his face is gutting. 

John has to say no. He _has_ to. God, but it _is_ tempting, though. It’s been a while since they’ve had dinner together, not one consumed on the sofa in front of the telly, at least. And if there’s one thing he’s missed, it’s that. Sherlock always gets so lovely and loose lipped when he drinks wine, and John would have been sure to ply him with it tonight. 

And afterwards, if they were tipsy enough, John could-

John sighs. What’s the point? Sherlock clearly doesn’t attach the same significance to them as John does. And he can’t keep ignoring willing women in favour of these painful not-dates with Sherlock. How is he ever going to move on?

“I can’t,” John tells him, and Sherlock’s face falls. Just for a second. He immediately sets his expression back into an oddly cold mask. “I’ve already stood her up once,” John tries to explain.

Sherlock gives him a small, horrible smile. “Right. Of course. Well. I’ll see you later, then. Goodbye, John. Do enjoy yourself.”

And with that, he leaves. 

John thinks about that smile throughout the entire dinner, and he keeps checking his phone to see if Sherlock has sent him any messages.

He doesn’t.

***

Grief is a funny thing, though.

It doesn’t rest heavily on his shoulders anymore. He’s back, so why should it?

Except sometimes Sherlock will swan out of his room, dressing gown billowing behind him, monologuing on nitroglycerin or something and John will just stare at him. Sherlock will feel the weight of his gaze and pause, suddenly noticing perhaps, that his audience isn’t all _there._ He’ll look at him and narrow his eyes, lips pursed, and god John has _missed_ that look.

“What?”

John will swallow past the hard lump in his throat and he’ll blink several times and then he’ll shake his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He can’t tell Sherlock that for a second, just for a second, he’d felt like he was sitting in an empty flat again, the ghost of Sherlock’s presence all that remained of him. And he’d thought he was _seeing_ him again, not flesh-and-blood detective but some paper thin apparition conjured out of his imagination.

But he’s here. He’s _here._

Sherlock will look unconvinced, but he’ll sidle up to John on the couch, too close like he always is, jam his cold toes under his thigh and complain loudly about whatever he’s watching on the telly, like he just knows that John would like him to come closer, so that he can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

Just like old times, except, not quite.

Because John doesn’t want this distance between them. John wants to pull at Sherlock’s wrist and drag him into his lap, hold him there. Press his face into the warm junction of neck and shoulder, and say, You’re not dead. You’re not dead, it’s a miracle, and please, don’t ever, ever, leave me again. Don’t go where I can’t follow.

***

Sherlock used to text him incessantly, before. Several times during a date. Useless, mindless things. 

Calling for _emergency back up_ when John knows damn well he’s probably just sprawled on the sofa, unable to reach for his skull. Sherlock would say _I need your help_ and John would go running, only to find that Sherlock couldn’t find the sugar and he wanted a cup of tea.

“This is just, this is just fucking _ridiculous,_ ” John had thundered.

Sherlock just looked at him calmly and asked. “So you’re not going to tell me where it is, then?”

Once, though, Sherlock had “accidentally” consumed some mushrooms that weren’t poisonous- thank God- but did have mild hallucinogenic properties and John had to sit next to him for eight hours while Sherlock came down from his high. He’d been worried, of course, especially considering that Sherlock was convinced that he was a pirate and was adamant to climb on to their dining table and proclaim that he was on his way to the high seas, and would very much like if John would be his first mate. It would have been amusing if John wasn’t worried he was going to fall and break his neck. 

And eight hours later, Sherlock was retching into a toilet and John was gingerly holding his hair back.

“Why,” he’d asked, once he was sober, pale and shaking and lying on the bathroom floor. “If you tell me it was for a case, I am going to _kick you in the head_. If you ever felt the need- to be anywhere near this kind of stuff-”

“John, don’t be tedious. If I wanted drugs I would have stuck to morphine and cocaine. Hallucinogens are not my preferred substance of choice.”

John glares. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

Sherlock’s eyes are closed but he gives him a small, private smile. “It was for a case,” he reveals, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

John gapes, shouts “Oh my _god_ , _”_ and leaves Sherlock to lie there. He can get up and put himself in bed. 

He hadn’t kicked him, obviously.

After that, John usually ignored the texts. He could always tell when it was actually an emergency, so he wasn’t worried. That was two years ago. 

But John is on a date right now and it’s gnawing at him, the fact that Sherlock hasn’t texted him for hours. He knows he’s being stupid, he’s probably lost in his mind palace or conducting another one of his beyond-human-comprehension-or-understanding experiments, and John is just being a _fool_ but it worries him, the silence.

“John?” Carolyn looks questioningly at him. “Are you alright? Only you’ve been staring at me for the past minute and you haven’t said anything.” And then she smiles at him, as though she finds this very amusing.

She’s really quite fit, John thinks regretfully. Very bendy. And Christ, the stamina. 

“I’m fine,” John lies. She doesn’t look convinced. She shouldn’t be. John is currently wondering how rude it would be if he simply got up and left. Sherlock’s fine, obviously. The fact that he hasn’t sent him anything must mean he’s absorbed in something interesting and that’s good, because John thinks it would be beneficial to both of them if he didn’t grow so antsy when John left him alone at the flat.

Except that’s a load of rubbish, because it’s when Sherlock is _quiet_ that John worries.

“I have to go,” he says a moment later. Carolyn’s indulgent smile vanishes.

“What?”

“I’m really sorry, it’s just, I think Sherlock is sick-”

Carolyn sighs, as if she’d been expecting this, and touches her fingertips to her head like she has a headache. John will make it up to her later, he promises himself, even as he’s standing up and putting some money on the table, including an outrageous tip. 

“John, he’s a grown man, I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

“Yeah, probably, but he might have gotten kidnapped-”

“ _Kidnapped?”_

-”Yeah, it’s happened before, so,” he shrugs into his coat. “I’m sorry. Again. I really do have to go. Next week we can-”

Carolyn shakes her head. “Don’t bother,” she tells him, and picks up her wine glass. “And don’t call me.”

“Carrie, I-”

She inclines her head and gives him a withering look. “This isn’t about me, John. This is about you. For the love of God, if you’re not into women, maybe you could stop wasting our time?”

John doesn’t have time for this. 

“That is- none of your business,” he mutters, without any spite, and hurries out of the nice, warm restaurant, and into the freezing rain.

Okay, he knows this is stupid. He stands there, steadily growing more and more drenched, and wonders if this is what qualifies as unhealthy behaviour. For a normal person with a normal life, perhaps. But for someone who lives with Sherlock Holmes, the possibility of kidnap is actually very real. Or perhaps a hired thug had snuck into their flat again to choke Sherlock with a zip tie. That had been a memorable incident. 

Maybe _Moriarty-_

Oh god, no, Watson, he’s _dead._

He might not be, John thinks wildly, flagging down a cab. 

“Where to?” the cabbie asks, and John grunts out their address. For the next fifteen minutes, he keeps on shouting at him to go faster, and it’s a miracle the man doesn’t crash them both to escape him. 

Finally, _finally,_ he’s home. John runs out, runs up the stairs, and his breathing doesn’t slow down until he throws open the door, calls Sherlock’s name desperately, and finally sees him swanning out of the kitchen, half a mince pie in his mouth and the other half in his hand, dressed in his ratty dressing gown and his grey t-shirt (inside out), the one that’s gone near transparent with washing. 

Sherlock’s gaze sweeps over him, and he takes in John’s wet clothes, the wild, panicked look in his eyes, and slowly swallows down his huge piece of mince pie. 

“Hey,” John says, and he’s striding across the length of the living room, until he’s right in front of Sherlock.

“Hello,” Sherlock answers automatically, frowning. “Why are you...here?”

John doesn’t bother responding. He simply drinks in the sight of Sherlock: alive. Unhurt. Safe. The usual unruly tangle of his hair, crumbs all over his front. If John leaned closer and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s, he would find the lingering sweetness.

“John, why are you staring at me? Are you alright? Have you suffered a concussion?” Sherlock bends over so he can peer into John’s eyes, and John wants to grab his face and kiss him. “Hm. Your pupils look fine to me.”

John catches his wrist in his hand, presses his thumb to Sherlock’s pulse. Sherlock makes a soft surprised noise but doesn’t move, stands still while John counts. Strong. Steady. A very healthy heart rate for someone of Sherlock’s age. 

Sherlock’s hands are lovely. John always finds his eyes drawn to them, the long, pale fingers. The chemical burns and the callouses, rough hands. The hands of a scientist. His near translucent skin, the dark veins underneath. Old scars and bruises, from days that John doesn’t like to think about, because he wasn’t there. Because Sherlock was younger and even more reckless and John might have lost him before even knowing him.

(No new scars, though. John knows that but still, it makes him breathe a little better to see it.)

“Um,” he says, letting go of his wrist. Sherlock’s arm falls to the side.. “Great. You. Have a very normal heart rate. Excellent, in fact.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Sherlock replies easily, with a hint of amusement in his voice. And a hint of something vaguely flirtatious as well, but that could just be his imagination. He stuffs the rest of the sweet into his mouth, and moves past him into the living room. Like John didn’t do something extremely ridiculous and unexplainable. Like John isn’t acting completely mad. 

“Weren’t you on a date. With the Zumba instructor,” he flops down onto the sofa and clicks on the telly. 

“Yeah,” John confirms, and finds himself moving to the sofa and sinking down next to him. 

“Carolyn with a Y,” Sherlock says, flipping between channels, like he’s proud of himself for remembering.

“That’s the one.”

“I doubt she took kindly to you running off like a bullet to see your flatmate,” Sherlock hazards, and sends him a look that sends a funny tingle down John’s spine. His lips are pursed, like he’s trying to hold in laughter.

“Yeah, I think that’s probably the last I’ll see of her,” John says mournfully.

There’s a beat of silence and then Sherlock is laughing, the deep, rumbly laughter that John feels like he hasn’t heard in _ages._ His eyes crinkle at the corners and there are laughing lines on his cheeks. He turns to John, and John can’t help the laughter spilling out of his own mouth.

John loves him so much it hurts. God, when will it stop?

“I don’t even feel _guilty._ ”

“You shouldn’t. She would have bored you to tears in a week’s time.”

And Sherlock sounds so confident, like it’s only a matter of time before John grows bored with another person. His confidence is warranted. John doubts anyone would be able to hold his attention like Sherlock.

“Although,” he drawls, “I didn’t even call you for an emergency. So _this_ time, you can’t pin the inevitable demise of your relationship on me.”

John chuckles a little more, and rests his head on the sofa, finally feeling calm. He pats Sherlock’s thigh before he knows what he’s doing, and he can feel the quadricep tense a little under his touch. He hurriedly draws back.

“I _can_ blame the others on you, though,” John points out, and Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. _Irrelevant._

He doesn’t ask why John came running back here in the first place, or why he’s so wet, why he felt the need to touch him, check that his heart was still beating. But when their laughter dies down, Sherlock looks at him, and his gaze is careful and soft. Fond. A little sad. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to. Sherlock is, after all, the cleverest man John knows. 

They just sit there, on the sofa, and after a while John mentions that he’s hungry because he didn’t even finish his dinner, and Sherlock rolls his eyes and drops a few takeout menus into his lap. John orders Indian, and they eat with their fingers on the sofa, watching a dramatic crime series that Sherlock must really enjoy, because he keeps shouting things at the screen and throwing bits of naan at it.

This should be enough. John should be happy with this. The warmth. The constancy. It should be _fine._ But it really isn’t. 

***

“Don’t you think you should just use the upstairs bedroom for Sherlock’s lab, John? We could clean up the kitchen a bit. Oh dear, are those _feet_?” She quickly shuts the fridge. 

John flaps the newspaper a little, hides behind it. “Er...no, because I sleep in it.”

Ms Hudson looks shocked as she turns around to face him. “Still?”

“Of course still. Where else would I sleep?”

“ _Well,_ ” Ms Hudson takes his cup away from the table, even though he wasn’t finished with his tea yet, and starts washing it rather angrily at the sink. He hopes she doesn’t break it. “Well, I really did think. After all this time. Well, I never.”

John has no idea what she’s talking about. He also knows exactly what she’s talking about. He says nothing.

***

_Where is my brother? MH_

**How should I know? He’s probably home.**

_You are unaware of his whereabouts?_ MH

**He was composing when I left. He probably couldn’t hear your call.**

_Left? Are you not with him?_ MH

**No. I’m on a date. Goodbye. Please stop texting me.**

_Interesting. MH_

***

“John, this is just ridiculous,” Sherlock complains, for the umpeenth time that evening. John rolls his eyes and steps out of the cab, and Sherlock takes longer than usual to do the same. He has to stand on the curb for a few seconds before Sherlock sluggishly pays the cabbie and opens the door. 

“Just this once. Look, if you’re _really_ uncomfortable, we can leave,” they start walking down the street together, the rhythm of their steps somehow matching automatically. John hardly ever notices it anymore. Sherlock walks faster, always had, and somehow John just had to learn to keep up.

“I am already uncomfortable,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, hands shoving into his coat pockets.

“Come on, we hardly ever go out with other people,” John touches his forearm briefly, Sherlock sends him an annoyed glance, and huffs. 

“ _I_ don’t go out with other people. You go out with other people on an alarmingly regular basis,” he points out, sounding rather miffed.

“Okay, but that’s different. Lestrade always invites you, you know. You just never come.”

“He asks because he’s being _polite,_ ” Sherlock spits the last word out like being polite is quite possibly the worst thing in the entire world. “He doesn’t really want me there.”

“Yes, he does. He likes you. You’re his _friend._ ”

“He almost broke my jaw when I came to see him, afterwards.” _After I was done pretending to be dead,_ he means, but John can put together the dots.

“Which you can’t blame him for,” John points out, and Sherlock says something under his breath very derisively. 

And then: “If I say something unacceptable and they all look at me like I’ve grown another head, I am leaving.”

John makes a very loud, frustrated noise. “Fine,” he relents.

He tries not to hold it against Sherlock. After all, for most of his life people _didn’t_ automatically take a shine to him. There were those people- the ones that John really hated with every fiber of his being- that _wanted_ him, sure. John could see it in the way their gazes lingered a little too long on that perfect Cupid’s Bow of a mouth, or the way they took every opportunity to pass off what was clearly an attempt at feeling up as a casual touch- but they didn’t know him, did they? They wouldn’t understand his quirks, they wouldn’t ever try to understand _him,_ once they’d gotten what they wanted.

They walk into the bar together, and John can feel Sherlock immediately tense at the crowded, warm interior. He shifts closer to John. 

They find Lestrade at the far end of the bar, comfortable and already slightly tipsy at the booth. Molly sits next to him, and she waves at the two of them excitedly. She and Lestrade have their hands clasped together under the table. When had that happened? 

(He’s glad, though. John knows what it’s like to be in love with someone who won’t love you back, and he’s genuinely happy she’s found someone. Happy enough to stop resenting her for being Sherlock's confidante in his elaborate pretending-to-be-dead business)

On the other side of the booth is Hopkins. She’s probably the only other DI besides Lestrade who Sherlock doesn’t tear apart every chance he gets. He’d even called her “passably bright.” High praise. She nods at them both, eyes sparkling.

“Didn’t think His Nibs would turn up,” Lestrade says, raising his beer to the two of them. “What did you bribe him with?”

“I am here under protest,” Sherlock answers for him irritably, slipping into the booth with his characeristic gracefulness. Hopkins shifts to provide space. 

“I said you’d give him full access to the cold case cabinet for the entire week,” John grins at Lestrade and he curses at him colourfully, the same time Sherlock makes a delighted nose. John settles in across from him. 

“Well, why on earth didn’t you lead with _that,_ ” Sherlock complains, and John just winks at him. This causes Sherlock to do a very slightly, barely noticeable double take. John doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“You can come to the morgue, if you like,” Molly pipes up. “We just got a white caucasian female this morning. mid sixties. Perforated liver. I think you’d like it.”

Sherlock looks at her interestedly. “Sounds promising. Do you still have that bus driver with the ruptured spleen? His medical details have a tenuous connection to another case I’d been working on. The one where we found the man with all of his fingernails scraped off. Do you remember, John?”

John is about to answer affirmatively when Lestrade groans at the ceiling. “Can we, for once, I don’t know, have a _normal_ conversation? Like normal people?

“None of us here are normal,” Hopkins says, taking a sip of her beer. John feels like hugging her. It’s the kind of thing that would put Sherlock at ease.

“How are your...children,” Sherlock asks slowly, and Greg almost gapes at him. 

“Oh stop it, I do recall that you’ve sired offspring,” Sherlock mutters, blushing. “Although why, I have no clue. There really was no need to further your genes. Anyway. I need liquor. Where’s the menu?”

***

“Never have I ever,” Molly slurs, twirling a plastic straw under her fingertip. “Given someone a blowjob in a police car,” and then she knocks back half her cocktail.

What is happening. John is so, so drunk, and now they’re suddenly talking about blowjobs. How did they get here? And Sherlock is sitting right across from him, looking alarmed. John wishes they were sitting next to each other. He wonders what he must think of all this. He wonders if Sherlock has ever given anyone a blowjob. He must have. That _mouth._ Made for sucking cock, really. John has certainly imagined Sherlock on his knees several times. 

“Er,” Lestrade says, and his face is so red John can’t distinguish between him and the similiar-coloured leather seats. No one else takes a drink, and Molly looks at all of them, smiling so widely John thinks her cheeks must hurt.

“That,” Hopkins says loudly. “Is illegal.”

“Illegally _sexy,_ ” Molly counters. “It’s your turn, now, Sherlock.”

John turns to Sherlock, who has his elbows on the table, long-fingered hands clasped against his mouth. His parted mouth. Hngh. When did his hair get so messy? Maybe John could fix it. And then tug at it a little.

“I am not participating in this madness,” Sherlock says firmly. He sounds surprisingly sober for someone who’s consumed as much alcohol as he has. Had John been mistaken his entire life about his notion of Sherlock being a lightweight? Or maybe he _is_ drunk, and just very good at hiding it. Maybe he’s practiced it, for a case.

“Come on,” John finds himself saying, and then he’s curling a hand over Sherlock’s, right over the greasy table top.. Sherlock looks down at his hand, at John’s face. There are two bright spots of colour on his cheeks. John has a sudden, intense desire to lick at that spot right below his ear. He tries to make a pleading face. Sherlock looks at him for a moment longer, and sighs. 

“Very well,” he decides, and curls his hands around his tumbler of whiskey. “Never have I ever wagered my kidneys in a card game.”

“Oh god,” Lestrade moans, and puts his face in his hands. “Please tell me you won.”

“Isn’t it obvious that I did, Graham,” Sherlock says testily, and takes a sip of his drink. “Considering I am sitting here in front of you, alive, playing this inane game because John insisted I come here, and I find it difficult to deny John anything.”

Oh. 

That’s...unexpected. John feels his lips parting a little, in surprise. He tries to get Sherlock to look at him, but Sherlock’s attention is fixed on the napkin he is currently tearing to shreds. 

“Yeah. I’d say you’re whipped, but you’re _both_ whipped,” Greg says, and John wants to hit him. But he doesn’t. He’s leaning back in his seat, eyes half-lidded and his arm thrown over Molly’s shoulder, and John feels so jealous suddenly he can’t breathe. Sherlock is right there, close enough to touch, but it feels like he’s miles away, for all of that. John should be able to do that too, run his fingers through his hair, hug him, or wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer.

“Never have I ever,” Hopkins says, breaking the momentary awkward silence following Greg’s pronouncement. “Been in _love.”_

Sherlock’s fingers still. They’re a tiny pile of shredded napkin surrounding his hands. His head is still ducked, and John wishes he would look up.

He can hear Molly giggling too, can hear all three of them picking up their glasses, clinking them, drinking. John feels sick. He finds that he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants to leave. He wants to drag Sherlock away from this place and take them both home. 

He’s about to say that, that they should leave, even though it would be rude and they’d all figure out why and pity him, but then Sherlock’s hand shoots out, curls around his glass, and he downs the rest of the drink.

Lestrade whistles, and Molly says something, but John can’t hear it, because there is only the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

And what- what does that even- _why_ would he- _who-_ jealousy rips through him, with an intensity that makes him feel faint.

Finally, finally, Sherlock looks up and their gazes meet, and John feels as though someone has stabbed him somewhere in his chest. Something raw and unguarded crosses Sherlock’s face, and John cannot look away.

“Who?” he croaks. 

Irene Adler, obviously, his brain supplies him. Remember how depressed he was, afterwards? Remember how weirdly _obsessed_ with her he got? That message alert tone, and the- the lightning fast deductions, and the sad violin playing. John had assumed, of course, but then Sherlock never brought her up again and he’d happily stashed the assumption away. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but the smile he sends his way doesn’t reach his eyes. 

The table has gone very quiet.

“John-” he can hear Molly saying.

“Maybe we should play something else,” Greg says quickly. 

Sherlock’s gaze drops and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He slips his fingers inside and places a few notes on the table. “Maybe we should all go home.”

“Sherlock-” John’s throat feels dry.

“Let’s go home, John. I’m tired.”

John nods, _of course._

“Yeah, we should all get going too,” Hopkins says gruffly, “See you around, Sherlock, John.”

Sherlock doesn’t grace her with a reply. He’s out of the bar even before John can follow him, coat billowing behind him as he leaves. John knows he’ll be waiting outside, so he doesn’t run after him. He just stands next to the table like an idiot. He still doesn’t know what just happened. Had he done something wrong? Had Sherlock been trying to tell him something? God, he hopes so.

How does he ask?

“John.” 

Molly catches his sleeve. John turns around to look at her, and she gives him a small smile. Lestrade and Hopkins are still at the table, sorting out the bill.

“Er, yeah?”

“I know what it feels like,” she says, so softly John can’t hear her. “For a long time, it was really, really horrible. Having to see him everyday. And he used to flirt with me, all the time. Of course I knew he didn’t mean any of it, but sometimes I got carried away. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t know, then. How he felt. About you. If I had, I wouldn’t have…” she trails off.

“Molly, I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” John tells her. His voice sounds emotionless.

“Yeah, maybe,” she agrees easily, but the look in her eyes says she knows that John is lying right through his teeth. “I love Greg,” she says, unnecessarily. Of course she does. John can see it shining out of her eyes. “But I also loved him, a long time ago.”

“I know,” John shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m just saying. If there are things you want to say, you should say them.”

And where had he heard that before? Right. His therapist. He hadn’t been able to say it then, and he can’t say it now. “You’re drunk, Molly. I’ll see you later.” He disentangles himself from her grasp, and he quickly threads his way through the crowd, and out into the cold crisp evening air.

As expected, Sherlock is standing on the curb. John can’t help but stare at him for several long seconds, the lean, angular lines of him. His shock of hair. It’s a little shorter now, though. When they first met it used to hang over the back of his neck and curl over his ears and John would always wonder what it would feel like if he threaded his fingers through it. 

He’s not as skinny, either. Bit more muscle. He’d gained back the weight he lost when he was away. John likes to think it’s because of him.

Sherlock must feel his gaze, because he turns around, eyes inscrutable. John walks up towards him, and they both stand silently on the curb for what feels like forever. John feels a little ridiculous. He should say something. Anything at all. Anything to break this strange, oppressive silence between the two of them.

“Let’s walk,” Sherlock suggests, and starts to do that.

What, John thinks, all three kilometres back home? Apparently, yes, because Sherlock hasn’t slowed down so John can catch up. John hurriedly covers the distance.

It’s a lovely evening. It’s past eleven o'clock but the streets are full. There’s sound all around them, people chatting, laughing, lovers holding hands as they stroll together. But the man walking next to him could be on the other side of the Atlantic, for all intents and purposes.

“Sherlock-” John begins, just as Sherlock says, “Irene Adler.”

John’s mouth shuts with an audible clack.

“You think it’s her, don’t you?” Sherlock’s mouth is turned up in an amused smirk, but it has none of its usual warmth when it’s directed at John. 

John doesn’t know what to say. “Yeah, well, seemed obvious.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock repeats, like he’s testing the word in his mouth. His voice sounds odd. “And you have reached this conclusion after applying my methods?”

“I-” John feels like he’s missed something. Is Sherlock testing him? Is this some kind of twisted riddle he’s expected to solve? “I don’t know. I just thought-”

“Well, _don’t,_ ” Sherlock suddenly snaps, and John flinches. 

Sherlock sees it and he sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “I am not in love with Irene Adler,” he says, after a moment, in a gentler tone. 

Oh. And what- what is John supposed to do with this information? What does it even mean? Relief is flooding his entire system and yet John doesn’t see how this pronouncement is helping him at all.

“If not Irene Adler,” he says, very slowly. “Then..who? Why did you drink?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, his steps slow, and he’s about to say something important, John can tell. John’s heart almost slows down in nervous anticipation, and he thinks, okay, this is it, now I’ll know, now I’ll know for sure, and if he says it, if he says what I think he’s going to say, then I’ll say it too, and-

“No one,” Sherlock finally says, quickly, as though he’s thought better of it. “I just wanted to see how Greg would react. Predictably, I’m afraid.”

John's stomach twists into knots, disappointment settles, dark and heavy, in his chest. That’s not what Sherlock was going to say. He knows it. He was so damn sure. Then why had he changed his mind? What the fuck is John missing here? Even Sherlock must know that it’s the most transparent lie he’s ever told. Or does he think John wouldn’t notice?

Or, a nasty voice at the back of his head says, you’re imagining everything. The secret smiles. The heated moments. The unsaid things. It’s all in your head.

Sherlock loosens the scarf at his neck. “I hope we’re not doing that again anytime soon.”

“No,” John assures him tightly. “We’re not.”

***


	7. we asked for signs (the signs were sent)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock closes the distance between the two of them, sliding across the torn leather seats, and his fingers curl around John’s shoulder. “I can’t have you bemoaning our lack of finances and spending longer than necessary at the surgery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in light of the current situation- I apologise for Sherlock's snarkiness towards medical professionals here. Don't be an arse, Sherlock!  
> Also, I myself am no medical professional, so if the medical details seem wonky, it's because I'm too lazy to do proper research.  
> Enjoy!

> _She tied you to her kitchen chair_
> 
> _She broke your throne and she cut your hair_  
>  _And from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah_  
>  _Hallelujah_

He doesn’t think about that evening in the pub, and Sherlock has probably deleted it by now. He pushes it to the back of his mind and tells himself that it’s fine, it’s all fine, he can get over this. 

But sometimes John will watch him playing his violin, hips swaying and eyes closed, black smudges against the tops of his cheeks, and something wide and gaping will open up in the pit of his stomach.

He’ll look at him bent over some experiment in the kitchen, taking apart the blender like he does occasionally; his eyes will sweep over the pale, vulnerable skin at his nape, and John will feel that same weight in his breastbone that he doesn’t know how to get rid of.

Please, God, what am I going to _do_?

John had spent two years hoping and wishing and _wondering_ if things could have been different, if he’d acted differently, said something differently, and now Sherlock is back and alive and John has him and John is _happy._ But. _But._

He doesn’t mind being Sherlock’s sidekick, his ‘pet’, as Moriarty had so kindly called him once. His partner-in-crime, his flatmate, his _whatever._ He likes being all of those things. But he wants to be other things, too. John wants to be able to wake up next to him. John wants to hold his hand in public. John wants to make love to him until nothing exists beyond the two of them, their sweat, their breaths, Sherlock’s heartbeat under the press of his mouth.

John isn’t sure how much longer he can take this.

***

**Another 7.5. Shaping up to be a potential 9. Occultist. The murders are part of some complex ritual. SH**

**_I told you, I can’t leave work early tonight._ **

**But John. Blood sacrifice. SH**

**_Enjoying yourself, are you_ **

**Would be enjoying myself more if you were here. Your absence is highly inconvenient. SH**

**_Tell me if you catch him._ **

**When. SH**

That had been four hours ago. John checks his mobile again, for what is probably the fifteenth time in the last forty seven minutes. It was quite natural for Sherlock not to text him when he was engrossed in a case. And considering Sherlock had called it a 9…

Right. John’s not going to tear himself away from the clinic just so he can make sure Sherlock is alive. Not again. If he keeps doing that he’s never going to be able to get anything done. And Sherlock is going to figure out why he keeps doing it and then. Well. John isn’t entirely sure how Sherlock would react to it. Would he be flattered? Concerned?

Anyway. It doesn’t matter, because John isn’t going to do it.

“Shall I send the next one in?” the intercom buzzes. 

John sighs and puts his mobile back into his pocket. “Yeah, alright.”

***

 **7.52 pm** **_Did you catch him yet??_ **

**8:15 pm** **_I didn’t know you had any knowledge of the occult. You’ll have to tell me all about it._ **

**8: 33 pm** **_What kind of books did you read?_ **

**8: 45 pm** **_Where are you?_ **

**9:20 pm** **_Did you catch them in the middle of a summoning? Because the readers would love it._ **

**9: 23 pm** **_I’m almost done. Where are you?_ **

**9:34 pm** **_Are you alright?_ **

**9:40** **_Sherlock?_ **

***

Right, it’s been six hours and John thinks an adequate amount of time has passed and now he can start to worry. Sherlock hasn’t been replying to his messages, and John has called him nine times and he hasn’t picked up once. Sherlock _always_ picks up his calls, (because he knows that _John_ knows that he prefers to text and thus only calls during emergencies) unless his hands are swimming inside a tank of sheep guts or something and he is physically _unable_ to pick up his mobile. This convinces John that this is another one of those times when Sherlock isn’t picking up because he can’t.

John doesn’t think about what could have happened. He doesn’t think: it was only a matter of time that their luck ran out, that a bullet had finally found him, or he hadn’t been able to dodge a knife’s edge in time, and of course it had to happen when John wasn’t there to take it for him.

An image of Sherlock, blood on the pallor of his skin, unblinking eyes staring back up at him, flashes in front of his eyes.

He has two more patients left but they can wait. He tells Alice, the nurse on call, that he has an emergency and he’ll come early tomorrow to make up for it.

She rolls her eyes and asks, “Is it Sherlock?”

John decides that it’s best that he not reply to that. He jogs out of the waiting room, and he doesn’t have the patience to wait for the lift so he starts running down the stairs. On the way he takes out his mobile and calls Greg.

“Alright, he’s not picking up his phone. Where is he?”

“Hello, John. I’m fine, thanks for asking. And how are you?” 

John stifles the urge to call him something rude and asks, tightly. “Where is he, Greg.”

Greg sighs like John is being extremely tiresome. “He’s fine. He’s with me. Well, not next to me. He’s in the back of an ambulance-”

John’s heart freezes in his chest. “ _What_?”

Greg hisses at the volume. “Christ, calm down. Didn’t you hear me when I said he’s fine? He got into a bit of a scrape but-

“Is he alright? Is he going to be alright?” John is outside, finally. He raises an arm and flags down a cab. 

“I’m sure he’ll live, John,” Greg says dryly, and John knows he’s being ridiculous, but he doesn’t care.

“I’m coming.”

“Hmm. Of course you are. See you, then.”

John hangs up without saying goodbye.

***

John barrels through the crowd of people, probably violently pushing people out of way. He glimpses Lestrade from the corner of his eye, and he says something to him, but John doesn’t hear it. Some idiotic officer tries to grab his arm and tell him that he’s not allowed inside the crime scene, but this time he can hear Greg say, “Let him go.”

So John just wrenches his arm out of his grasp and slips under the yellow police tape, and when he sees the ambulance, and Sherlock’s familiar curly haired head, relief sweeps its way through his body. John can see him arguing with a paramedic, gesturing his long fingered hands wildly about as the paramedic looks ready to burst into tears. 

Someone tries to ask him who he is and John just snarls, “I’m his doctor,” and finally, finally, he reaches him. Sherlock, had of course, sensed him even before he was close enough because he doesn’t even glance at him in the midst of his insults.

-”and now, as you can see,” he smoothly continues, “My doctor is here, and he is _very_ qualified to take care of me, so kindly _shove off._ Hello, John.”

Sherlock turns his head towards him and smiles, not the shark-like, smug one, but the warmer, more private one that is only ever directed at him. John quickly notes the black eye, the scrape on his cheek, and quickly stifles the protective rage that rises up inside of him. 

“Fantastic. He’s your problem now,” the medic says, and pushes a clipboard into his chest. “He hit his head. When he’s ready to be taken to the hospital for a scan, just tell one of the other guys. _Not me._ ” And then they turn around and leave, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _tosser’_ as they go.

“You hit your head?” John demands, and tries not to let the panic bleed into his voice. He puts the clipboard away, and instead, buries his hand in Sherlock’s hair, at the back of his head, checking for cuts, bleeding, swelling. “What the fuck happened?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and John desperately hopes he doesn’t have a concussion. “I. Well, I might have gotten into a bit of an altercation with the occultist-”

“Is anything broken?” John’s hands cup the sides of his neck, and he tilts Sherlock’s head up to peer into his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes are not dilated, but they do dilate the moment he looks into them. His skin also feels very warm under his hands. 

“Um- no, nothing is-”

“Blurred vision? Headache? Do you feel like vomiting? Do you remember exactly what happened?”

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock’s fingers curl around his wrists and he gently pulls John’s hands away from his face. “They already asked me these questions. I’m fine. My head hurts a bit, but I don’t think I have a concussion.”

“Well, you’re not the medical expert here,” John snaps, and Sherlock’s fond smile only widens. “What happened, did he hit you?” John should have been there. Why wasn’t he there? Because he was prescribing medicine for diabetes and heartburn. And meanwhile, Sherlock had been getting beaten up by some psychotic devil worshipper and if things had gone awry, Sherlock could have gotten a _concussion,_ and what if it had caused permanent brain damage? 

“Yes, he attacked me with a marble bust of what, I presume, was Satan,” Sherlock informs him, with a wry smile. “After which he began to attack several onlookers.” John wants to hug him. _Jesus._ John wants to touch him, properly, run his hands over his skin and just reassure himself that he’s fine but he has to be content with this- checking his _pulse,_ and looking into his eyes, and John hates it.

“That’s-” a ridiculous smile curls his lips. “Wow. That’s. Yeah, I should have been there.”

“I told you,” Sherlock tells him with an air of superiority. “I know what you like, John.”

I like _you,_ he almost says. Do you know that? Probably not. “Don’t be a git,” he lightly admonishes instead. “And I’m still taking you to an A&E.”

A look of extreme betrayal crosses his face. “But I just said I don’t have a concussion!”

John hauls him up with a hand around his bicep. “Who’s the doctor here?”

“Doctor, soldier, you keep throwing these words around whenever it suits you best,” Sherlock says darkly, but lets John pull him along towards a paramedic.

  
***

“I’m sorry,” John tells him in the ambulance, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, his hand still curls around the back of his neck. Sherlock frowns at him.

“What for?”

“I should have been there. I’m sorry. If something had happened-”

Sherlock places a finger against his mouth and shakes his head, his eyes dark and his mouth a solemn, straight line. “If you _ever_ blame yourself for something that happens to me, I’m going to burn every single one of your jumpers.”

***

Sherlock does, in fact, have a concussion. It’s mild, so John can finally breathe normally again. But his ribs are bruised and he has several other minor cuts and bruises. It is extremely difficult to get Sherlock out of the A&E, into a cab, and back home. He half wishes that one of Mycroft’s lackeys would just magically appear and help him carry his nearly-comatose flatmate back to safety.

(His headache had only increased, which meant painkillers, which had meant John having to explain to an overworked nurse about Sherlock’s drug abuse history, which meant that the painkillers they gave him were strong, which meant Sherlock was now a little bit floaty and dazed as he clutched onto John’s arm and tried to walk with him.)

“I hate it when you don’t go on cases with me. Why don’t you come? You can’t tell me you actually _prefer_ treating strep throat?”

John sighs, not really wanting to have a conversation about this past midnight when they’re waiting for a cab. He can’t flag them down with Sherlock’s ease, so he needs all the concentration he can get. Sherlock isn’t exactly making this easier by plastering himself to his side and talking right into his ear. Warm breath whispers against his skin. Cigarette smoke, John notes. Hm. They’ll have to talk about that later. 

“It can’t be about the money,” Sherlock continues, even as John pushes him bodily inside the cab once he finally manages to get one. “Be- _cause,_ ” Sherlock raises a finger. “The cases bring us enough funds. That’s why I take the ones that pay well, you know. The ones that pay well are usually the most boring.”

John closes the door and stares at him. “You take them for me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, his most patent _you’re such an idiot_ expression on his face. “Well, _yeah._ ”

Oh, and that’s strangely sexy, the colloquial rolling off Sherlock’s tongue. John quickly looks away, tells the cabbie where to go, marvelling for an instant that Sherlock and he have probably spent most of their acquaintance in the back of black cabs. “You don’t have to take those cases for me,” John says, looking at the back of the driver’s seat intensely. “You can take the interesting ones.”

Sherlock closes the distance between the two of them, sliding across the torn leather seats, and his fingers curl around John’s shoulder. “I can’t have you bemoaning our lack of finances and spending longer than necessary at the surgery.” John can’t help but face him, catch Sherlock’s bright, silver-eyed gaze in the dim interior of the cab. Of course, he’s touched. Of course, he hates that Sherlock will only say things like this when he’s drunk, or high as a kite on painkillers. Of course, John is so sick of wanting to kiss him and not being able to.

“I won’t then,” he reassures him, and Sherlock gives him a soft, loopy smile. And then he shifts so he’s closer to John, and dozes off on his shoulder.

***

Up the stairs with Sherlock leaning against him: god, this _does_ bring back memories. Although Sherlock had been speaking a lot more gibberish then, and touching John incessantly. And he’d kept complaining about how _rude_ Irene Adler was for poking him with sharp things, and John, you really don’t have to be jealous, you know. Had it been obvious then, as well? 

Once they’re inside, John steers him towards his bedroom. He doesn’t trust Sherlock to take a shower by himself in this condition, even if he does reek a little of sweat and blood. He makes him sit on the edge of his bed, and rummages in his wardrobe for a pair of clean pyjamas and a T-shirt. One of his myriad silken dressing gowns. For someone who can’t be bothered to ever hoover the rugs or clean up the kitchen after he’s made something explode in it, Sherlock has a surprisingly neat wardrobe. He’s never seen the inside of it. Well, he’s seen the sock index, but that’s it.

“Here,” John hands Sherlock a pile of freshly washed clothes. “Change into these.”

Sherlock looks entirely unimpressed with John’s directive; he rolls his eyes in response and starts to flop backwards on the bed. John grabs him by the front of his shirt before he can. “Oh no. You’re not going to sleep like that. _Change._ And I’ll make you a cup of tea. Okay?” Sherlock’s head is comically lolling backwards. It makes his lips part in a very adorable way. 

“Very well,” he grumbles, and snatches away the pyjamas.

John lets go of him, nods, and then leaves the bedroom for the kitchen. He’d be happy if Sherlock ate some dinner, too, along with the tea- he probably hasn’t eaten any proper food since the morning. But he’s quite sure Sherlock will be too sleepy to sit through an entire meal. So he concentrates on making the tea, and tries not to think about Sherlock stripping out of his clothes in the room down the hall.

When he comes back with an enormous mug of tea in his hand, Sherlock still hasn’t managed to take off his shirt. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, body turned towards the doorway, head ducked. Fingers struggling with the buttons of his shirt. He’s managed to unzip his trousers though, and they hang very precariously around his narrow hips. John can see a familiar pair of dark grey briefs. Familiar because he’s tossed them into the washing machine several times.

“Do you,” he chokes out. “Want some help.”

Sherlock looks up at him, and nods slowly. “If you would be so kind. My fingers aren’t working.”

Alright, you can do this, John tells himself. Just think of him as another patient. Think of him as a sixty-year-old man with erectile dysfunction. And really bad breath. And a really horrible rash spreading across his chest.

Of course, Sherlock has none of these things. When John raises his own shaking fingers to his buttons, all that is revealed is pale, flawless skin, marred by a few scars, sure, but absolutely perfect, nonetheless. Darkening along the left side of his torso- that’ll be the bruised ribs. Sherlock’s hands fall to his sides and he rolls his shoulders so that his shirt slips off once John is done with the last of his buttons. The cut he’s stitched so many months ago is healed, but it’s left behind a thin, brown scar. John’s fingers brush against it and he can hear Sherlock inhale sharply.

“Does it hurt,” he asks, though he knows damn well it doesn’t.

Sherlock’s abdomen flutters. “No.”

“Good. That’s good.” John’s hand falls away.

“I’ll just,” Sherlock turns around to grab his t-shirt from the bed, and John’s heart stops.

He straightens up and faces him and holds out his t-shirt to John as if he expects him to help him wear it, but John ignores it. He clasps Sherlock’s hip and turns him around again. 

“John-?” Sherlock says his name questioningly.

Rage. That must be rage, that makes his chest splinter apart and his breath curl into a tight ball in his throat. I’m going to kill whoever did this to you, he thinks, his eyes sweeping over the skin of Sherlock’s back. Scars. So many scars, badly healed and knotted and some of them pink with age, and how had John never even realised? 

When John’s fingers gently touch the skin, Sherlock startles. John thinks he’s going to turn around, shout at him, tell John to mind his own business, but he’s strangely still. He can’t even hear him breathing. 

“Who,” he rasps. “And how.”

Sherlock finally takes a deep, shaky breath. “Serbia.”

“They did this to you. They tortured you.”

“Yes.”

“And the man- the people- who did this. Are they dead?”

Sherlock nods. 

“And how did they die?”

“Very painfully, Mycroft tells me.”

Well. That’s something, at least. If Mycroft Holmes thought it was painful. Of course, if he’d asked John, John could have been very creative. Surely _nothing_ was painful enough for whoever did this to Sherlock. If John had been there, he would have torn them apart with his bare hands. Tooth and claw. 

Sherlock had left this out when he’d told him about Serbia in that cheap hotel in Bristol. He’d just said he’d been _detained._ Captured. John had wondered, idly- if Sherlock had been captured, surely they must have...but he’d quickly put the thought out of his mind. But now the evidence is in front of him. 

He has to tamp down the murderous rage, clench his jaw, still his shaking fingers. 

He finds himself leaning his forehead against his skin, right between his shoulder blades. And he breathes. Sherlock smells so, so alive right now. Warm and pulsing right next to him, a little battered, yes, but still _here_. Safe. But he had done too much,far too much, to get back.

“It gets better,” Sherlock suddenly says, breaking the silence. And why would he say that, as if _John_ is the one who needs comforting. John, who hadn’t fucking been _whipped,_ from the looks of that. 

“Does it?”

Sherlock gently turns around, and John almost sways forward, right into his bare chest. “It will,” he promises. “Could you help me-?” and then he’s holding out his t-shirt again. 

John sighs, smiles tiredly, and helps. Sherlock raises his arms and John slips it over his head. And then Sherlock wiggles awkwardly out of his trousers, and John wonders fleetingly if he’s going to take off his pants too. He doesn’t, and John is extremely grateful for that. He stands in front of him in case he needs help putting on his pyjamas, but he doesn’t reach forward. Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed and pulls them on, over washed cotton sliding over his long, coltish legs until he’s finally fully dressed.

The effort seems to have exhausted him, though, because his eyelids start drooping. John raises a hand to cup the back of his head and check if the swelling has gone up, but instead his fingers card through Sherlock’s hair instead. It’s very soft. Sherlock leans into his touch, biting his lip.

It hurts. It hurts to want and _want_ and not to have, John wants it to stop. If he can’t have him, he wants it to _stop._

“Tea,” he says loudly, and Sherlock’s eyes snap open. John drags his hand out of his hair, picks up the mug he’d put on the dressing table, and thrusts it towards him. Sherlock regards him for a moment with his faintly cloudy gaze (which reminds John that Sherlock is still a little loopy, and he needs to keep his hands off and away) and then takes the mug from his hands. The brush of their fingers feels deliberate.

“Tea,” John repeats, and Sherlock takes a sip, still blinking at him owlishly over the rim of the cup. “And then you’ll go to bed. Alright?”

“Alright, John,” Sherlock says, and takes another sip. “Stop hovering. Sit.”

Next to him, he means, obviously, and John obeys. He needs to get out of clothes, though, the scent of hospital is still clinging to his skin. But he doesn’t want to leave anytime soon. Sherlock raises his legs off the floor and sits cross-legged on the bed, and continues to drink his tea.

“Is your head okay?”

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise, which could mean anything. John doesn’t shift closer, but he does spread his legs a little more so that their thighs are pressed up against each other. 

His eyes stray towards Sherlock’s framed poster of the periodic table, the labelled diagram of a bee on the wall, he looks at his fancy oak wardrobe, at the windows that usually always remain closed with the curtains drawn. Sherlock’s bedroom has always been sparse and functional. He only ever seemed to use the bed, if at all. 

John would rarely ever come here. Before Sherlock’s (fake) death it had seemed like a very private place. Afterwards, he had stepped in, a few times. Just stood in the room and breathed in the rapidly fading scent of expensive aftershave and cologne, cigarette smoke and formaldehyde. It had seemed very strange then, the empty room- his wardrobe still had all his clothes- the damn bed still wasn’t made(Sherlock never made the bed)- John had half expected him to come swanning out of nowhere, and ask John what he was doing in his room. _I hope you didn’t touch my sock index._

He’d woken up in this bed once. After a really nasty hangover. He wasn’t wearing his jumper, or his belt, or his shoes and socks. He’d stumbled into the kitchen to find Sherlock attempting to make breakfast. He’d burnt the bacon. John had quickly slipped into action and salvaged it. All the adventurous breakfast-making had made him forget to thank Sherlock. Obviously someone had brought him home, and it definitely wasn’t Greg. He did briefly wonder if he’d said anything untoward. But Sherlock was acting completely normal. “Perhaps you’re getting too old to drink your body weight in alcohol,” he’d said to John over breakfast, drilling a hole into their cutting board for reasons known only to him. No other reference had been made to the previous night. 

Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he thought _John_ would be embarrassed. All John could think about at the time was Sherlock’s long fingers pulling his jumper off of him. Unbuckling his belt. Sherlock had obviously been very proper about it. No lingering touches. And why should he, John had thought. Sherlock wasn’t. He _didn’t._ Whatever. (Yet the evidence of Sherlock’s particular brand of affection had always been clear to him, right from the beginning. It wasn’t _romantic_. But it was enough, for John, because it was whatever Sherlock was willing to give him. ) 

A blanket was thrown over the sofa, crumpled into a ball, union jack pillow propped up against the head. (If John pressed his nose to it, it would smell of Sherlock’s bergamot shampoo) He’d slept there. Because John had been in his bed. Obviously. It’s not as though he could have just slipped in beside him. That would have been...weird. Right? Even though they had shared a bed plenty of times. John had wondered if it meant something, this deliberate avoiding of sleeping-next-to-each-other.

Maybe he could tell him, he’d thought. I’m fine with it. If you want to. If you’d _like_ to. Sleep next to me. Wake up next to me. But maybe it was for the best. After all, John’s body might have been drawn to him, even in sleep. They might have woken up tangled together, John’s nose pressed into his hair, arms around his middle, and John would have found it difficult to rationalise his way out of that. Sherlock would have seen right through him. 

Sherlock finishes the last of his tea and puts it back on the nightstand. The clink of china against wood almost startles him. “I’ll just brush my teeth,” he tells John shortly and slowly walks out of the room. He’s still a little unsteady on his feet. John wonders if he should go and help him, but Sherlock’s already received enough coddling for the evening and he might snap at him. 

He realises, right about now, in a horrifying moment of clarity, that he has to move out.

This. This, whatever this is between them, it’s clearly not going to work. If John doesn’t live here anymore, maybe it’ll be easier. Of course he won’t cut Sherlock off completely. He wouldn’t survive that way. No, but, a case a few times a month would be fine. Maybe an occasional dinner. If John didn’t have to see him every day, maybe he might even get over this. He could even find a woman.

And then what? 

Marriage? Children? White picket fence, Sunday dinners, the works?

John recoils. 

That’s not what he had wanted, ever. John had run away to Afghanistan to get shot just to get away from the tedium of it all, and when he’d come back and thought that the tedium was going to envelop him again, he’d met Sherlock. Sherlock, who made everything else seem dull and boring and who turned him inside out. 

Christ, he really can’t do this anymore.

Sherlock comes back into the room, swaying a little and rubbing at his eyes. John stands up immediately, catches him by the elbow when he’s close enough, and says, “Bed. Into bed, now.” John can smell the toothpaste on his breath. Sherlock allows himself to be led down onto the mattress. 

And then he grabs his wrist, preventing John from leaving. It’s not a very strong grip. But it could be a vice for the way John stills, and looks down at the curl of his pale fingers around his skin, and then back at Sherlock. 

Sherlock looks up at him, his gaze soft and bleary. He looks a bit like a teenager, with his unruly hair and the pale pink pout of his mouth, his rumpled pyjama pants. John can’t read the look in his face.

“Do you need somethi-” he starts, but Sherlock interrupts him.

“I never needed a flatmate, you know,” he says, and it’s such a strange and unexpected thing to say that John just stupidly asks, “What?”

“The day we met. Stamford kept pestering me. Telling me I needed a flatmate. He had some ridiculous idea that I was _lonely._ ”

Oh. He’s talking about-

Why?

John swallows, and waits. It must be the drugs talking.

“But I didn’t need one. I could afford this flat on my own. I have a Trust Fund, you know,” and he mentions that in a posh little voice that makes John want to kiss him. Again. “And the cases. So I had money. And I thought, alright, maybe I could live with someone for a few days, just for a lark. See who Stamford comes up with. But then. He brought you.” 

The way Sherlock is looking at him now. John’s breath stills. _Adoringly_. Sherlock pulls a bit at his wrist and he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, his knee against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s thumb strokes gently back and forth over his pulse. 

“And the moment I saw you,” he shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to say. “You’ve no idea how much I wanted you. And I thought; I have to keep this man interested. I have to make everything else dull and predictable and boring so he won’t ever want to leave. Maybe, if I save him, if I give him something worth living for, if I’m just the right balance between decent and a little bit mad, if you think I’m brilliant enough- maybe you’ll _choose me.”_

John feels a faint ringing in his ears. And his throat is dry. And his hands are shaking. He has to say something. But what does he say? Is this an admission? John knows what he _wants_ to say, but is that what Sherlock wants to hear?

Does Sherlock even _know_ what he’s saying?

“I did choose you,” he says softly. Sherlock lets go of his wrist and instead warm fingers brush against John’s cheek. The touch makes him shiver, he wants to lean in, nudge his cheek against Sherlock’s palm, close his eyes, press his mouth against the skin. “I only ever chose you, each time.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Do you think I saved you?”

“A thousand times over,” John whispers, and Sherlock sighs, deep and satisfied, as if John has given him the greatest gift of all time. He swipes his hand up, lets it weave through his hair, almost like he’s petting a dog. 

“I’m glad,” Sherlock’s hand falls away, and then he’s letting himself fall back against the pillows, snuggling into the bed. “Goodnight, John.”

Wait, no- 

Hang on. He can’t just say that- and- fall _asleep-_

John hurriedly stands up, and stares at Sherlock, lying down on the bed, his eyes already half-lidded. “I’m so tired, John,” he murmurs, and John doesn’t think he’s talking about his headache, or the case, or the pain in his blackened eye. 

“God, I was so _stupid,_ ” he slurs. “I should have...I _should_ have. But I’ve ruined everything so easily, before. I didn’t want to ruin this.”

He doesn’t say anything after that, and neither does John. How can John say anything at all, when it feels like his entire world is tipping sideways on its axis? Sherlock did ruin things. He ruined _him,_ for everyone else. Even if John moves out of this flat and never sees him again, John will never find anyone good enough. No one would ever be able to take Sherlock’s place.

He opens his mouth, but Sherlock’s already snoring softly.

What had just _happened,_ John thinks, still reeling. 

Trance-like, he pulls Sherlock’s duvet over his body, feels his heart expand underneath his ribs as Sherlock snuggles underneath it. He turns off the lamp. And then he places his palm over Sherlock’s forehead and tenderly brushes back his curls, like he had, ages ago, when he was done playing dead and had decided to come back to John. 

***

It occurs to him, many hours later, as he’s sitting on the sofa in their sitting room in the wee hours of the morning, that Sherlock hadn’t found him some _thing_ worth living for. He had found him some _one._

***

Sometime around the morning John stumbles out of the flat. He does it with the vague intention of going for a walk, but instead he finds himself slipping into Speedy’s instead. Better, this. If Sherlock needs him he could return to him quickly. 

Not that John is relishing the idea of returning to the flat anytime soon.

There’s a sign on the door that says ‘closed’ but the door is unlocked. Ms Hudson must be baking. Sure enough, as soon as the bell tinkles and John finds a seat closest to the door, Ms Hudson pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, John,” she immediately says, her face gone soft and pitying. “Have the two of you had a domestic again? I’ll make you some tea.”

And then she disappears again. Tea. John doesn’t think tea is going to make this any better. Christ, what _will_ ? What is he supposed to do now? Sherlock had been high, maybe he hadn’t meant any of it. Or he’d meant it, but John was reading it entirely the wrong way. And if he was, what was the right way? Could John say something? _Should_ he say something? He has no idea what the last few hours had meant, but he knows with a very strong sense of certainty that he’s at a crossroads here.

“Here you go, love,” Ms Hudson swishes out of the kitchen, places a cup in front of him on the table and what looks like a ginger cake. It’s John’s favourite. But it looks as appealing as a plate of dust right now. Then she takes the seat across from him, and looks at him expectantly. John takes a sip. 

“Thank you, Ms H,” he says. God, he sounds awful. “It’s lovely.”

“You’re welcome dear. When me and Frank used to fight, and when we didn’t make up the proper way-” she gives him a knowing look and John takes a very hasty gulp of tea-”I’d just make a cup and sit quietly by myself. It would pass.”

John rubs his eyes. “Ms Hudson. You know me and Sherlock aren’t a couple, right? You’ve always known that. We’re not...like that.”

Yeah, he thinks. Maybe putting it into words would give him more perspective. Maybe John had just allowed himself to be swayed by everyone’s insinuations and fallen into the trap of thinking that if everyone could see it, maybe _he_ was just being blind.

Ms Hudson looks unperturbed. “Not like what, dear?” 

“I mean, we don’t. It’s not like you and your ex husband- erm, Frank. We weren’t-”

“What, sex?” Ms Hudson interrupts him, and John nearly chokes on his tea. “And how does that even matter? I know you two weren’t sleeping together. I would have heard. I heard your arguments often enough.”She sends him a displeased look that doesn’t reach her eyes, because the curve of her mouth is still amused.

John stares at her. “Then why- why did you always, were you just having us on?”

Ms Hudon’s eyebrows go up so high they practically disappear. “What an awful idea of a joke, dear. No, John, you know why.”

“I do?”

“Oh come now, John, you love him. It was as plain as day to me, right from the day I saw the two of you together. Oh, and Sherlock has always been _very_ easy to read. He pretends to be mysterious, but he wears his heart on his sleeve, that one. The way he looked at you! Like you were a locked room murder on legs, but better.”

John swallows past a hard lump in his throat. Ms Hudson looks at him fondly, just as a mother might, and John suddenly feels like hugging her. I don’t know what I’m doing, he wants to say. I don’t think I could just live without him. 

“I do love him,” he whispers, and the relief is startling, saying it outloud. He looks down at his hands. “Fuck. I love him so goddamn much, and-”

Ms Hudson’s palm curls over his. “I know, dear. I’ve seen it happen for years, now.”

John thinks of Sherlock’s bright eyes, the crooked twist of his smile, his stupid sock index, his obsession with tobacco ash- 

“I have to go,” he chokes out, and stands up, the chair almost falling over. He doesn’t even stop to thank Ms Hudson again for the cake, or even to say _thank you for everything._ He turns around and runs out of the shop. 

***

He takes a walk. It’s a very long walk, and he hopes Sherlock hasn’t slipped into a coma or anything while he wasn’t there. He texts Ms Hudson to check up on him just in case. _Just make sure he’s alive,_ he tells her. She sends back a winkey face. 

He walks and walks. He goes to the clinic, checks three patients and then says he’s feeling ill and leaves. He’s probably going to get fired soon. At this point John doesn’t really care.

And then he walks some more. For some reason he finds himself in the cemetery where Sherlock was, apparently buried. The last time he’d been here, he’d been speaking to a block of marble and begging it to not be dead. One more miracle, he’d said, grief and fury settling into his very bones. How could you have left me, he’d thought. How could you have _left me alone,_ how could you have ever, ever thought that I would think less of you- no matter what you did? But I don’t believe those fucks anyway, because you’re the cleverest- bravest, wisest man I’ve ever known- and you’ll always be a genius to me.

He’d never brought flowers, Sherlock had never given any indication of liking flowers, but sometimes he’d come by and read out cold case files, newspaper articles on violent crimes, to Sherlock’s tombstone and try to solve them, half expecting a exasperated-fond voice to say _Don’t be an idiot, John._ He’d gotten lots of strange looks.

And now he stares at Sherlock’s bronze plated name and thinks, no one, _no one_ will ever turn my head the way you did. You changed my life, you made me a better person. Saying it to an inanimate object is loads easier, isn’t it. 

You _saved_ me. So many times. In so many ways. 

And John knows, with terrifying, numbing certainty, that he can’t. He can’t go back to pretending that this- this _thing_ that had taken root inside of his chest, his head, his heart- didn’t exist. He can’t go back to pretending that Sherlock was just his _best friend._ He was, of course, but God, he was so, so much more than that. He was _everything._

***

It’s dark by the time he finally goes home.

***


	8. a crack in everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re in this together, you and I. The two of us against the rest of the world, remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I proudly present: PORN! and fluff so sweet it'll give you a toothache!  
> Thank you for coming along for the ride, and I hope this provides a satisfying ending for our boys. If you liked it, do let me know!
> 
> Also many thanks to https://widowsisa2018heistfilm.tumblr.com/post/188744277867/nothing-new-here-just-that-sherlock-had-already whose feelsy, heart-achey post inspired me to write 50k words of pining and fluff.

> _Remember when I moved in you,_
> 
> _and the holy dove was moving too_
> 
> _and every breath we drew was Hallelujiah_

John finds him in the kitchen when he comes back. Trust Sherlock to leap out of bed post-concussion, and start experimenting. He’s bent over his bunsen burner, heating something in a test tube. He’s concentrating so hard on it, peering into the contents of the slim glass container that he doesn’t notice John standing at the doorway of the kitchen, staring at him. And then John shifts a little, and Sherlock looks up. “John!” he exclaims, unwinding himself. “You’re back! Ms Hudson said you’d left for work.”

John does a quick cursory check; he seems to be physically fine. The black eye has darkened a bit, but that’s to be expected. 

There’s worry there, in his face. Sherlock looks as though he’s steeling himself for something. John hates himself a little. He’d just left him alone, the entire day, with no explanation. What would he have thought? 

“Thought I’d text you,” Sherlock continues, stammering a little, “but I couldn’t find my phone.” He offers him an unsteady smile. 

He doesn’t remember, does he? Does he remember all the devastating things he’d said last night. Does he remember that John had called him a machine on the day he’d decided to jump off a building? Did he remember that when he was being tortured and trying his very best to come back to his life, to John?

Sherlock’s smile flickers a bit, the more he looks at John. Uncertainty creeps into his face. John has no idea what his expression looks like. But it makes Sherlock swallow and say, “John?” in a very cautious voice.

John crosses the threshold, walks into the kitchen, rounds his way along the edge of the table until he’s next to Sherlock. Sherlock hastily twists towards him, frowning. John can’t see his eyes properly because of the goggles, so he takes a bit of the elastic on the side of his head and pushes it back, back until the goggles rest on top of Sherlock’s skull. It flattens some of his hair and the rest of it stands up at the back, making Sherlock look like he’s shoved a few fingers into an electrical socket.

He looks more confused and panicked than ever. He blinks rapidly. John licks his lips, and stares at him **,** the pale iridescent eyes, now widened in trepidation, the jagged lines of his cheekbones, his auburn-ebony-sable hair. He looks lovely, and John had thought himself immune to it for so long, but he isn’t. He really isn’t. Sherlock is gorgeous, an otherworldly, ethereal kind of gorgeous that is particular only to him. Especially in his old pyjamas and his dressing gown and his mad-scientist hair. The sight of him makes John _ache._

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, because it must be weird, John just silently standing there and staring at him. “What-” he starts, but then John interrupts him, mid-sentence, by cupping the side of his jaw, straining up on the balls of his feet, and pressing their lips together.

For some reason John had always thought that Sherlock’s mouth would be as abrasive and prickly as the rest of him, that it would be hard and set and not open to kissing at all. But when John kisses him, all he feels is unbearable softness. Sherlock makes a small, surprised sound, his fingers brush against John’s hip, but don’t make any more moves. John’s hand moves to the back of his neck, pulls him down and Sherlock follows, his mouth parting a little so John can trace his bottom lip with his tongue. God. That’s...that’s perfect. 

When he pulls away (the hardest thing he’s ever had to do) Sherlock sways gently towards him as though he’d wanted to continue. John’s hand is still cupped around the side of his neck. Sherlock looks down at him, eyes half-lidded, cheeks dusted with pink, his mouth half-open. He’s breathing hard, and John thinks his brain might have gone offline for a moment. One of his hands is clutching the table so hard the knuckles are white.

“I love you,” John says, around a rush of breath. 

Sherlock goes absolutely still. Only his eyes go wide as saucers. 

“I love you,” John tells him again, before Sherlock can stop him. “I debated it. I didn’t know if it was the right thing, telling you. So I kind of took the day off to think about it- sorry, by the way. Um. Ms H was supposed to check up on you. Anyway, that’s not important. Fuck, I’ve been in love with you for...so long. Have you ever been in love with someone for so long that you forget you’re in it? It becomes a part of you. A phantom limb-”

Sherlock looks absolutely devastated, and John doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, but he soldiers on, undeterred. “And I thought, you know, I have to tell him, or it’s going to kill me, wondering. What’s the worst that could happen? You’d reject me, I suppose. That’s fine, not terrible. You might even kick me out of the flat, but I reckoned I could convince you into letting me be your friend again. Anyway, you don’t have to-” he swallows. “You don’t have to say it back. If you don’t. Ah. Reciprocate. But I had to let you know, and I’m sorry, if-”

Sherlock stops him from his rambling by cupping his hands over his ears and kissing the words right out of his mouth. _Oh._ John reaches for his hips on instinct because it makes his knees go a little weak, but mostly just to _hold_ him. More of Sherlock’s warm, lovely mouth- 

“Oh god, I thought you were going to leave after last night,” Sherlock groans against his mouth. “I thought I’d finally gone and ruined it. But John. John you never _said-_ ”

John drags him away from the table, twists them around so he has Sherlock against the sink instead, which is not the most conducive of places for a snog, but it has the benefit of John being able to press against him and pin him there. Sherlock’s fingers bury themselves in his hair, and he lets his mouth fall open. Jesus, John is actually _kissing_ him-

“I’m so sorry,” he pleads. “But do you- do _you-_ ? _”_

Sherlock laughs weakly against his mouth, a wet, overwhelmed sound, that has John pulling away to look at him in concern. His lips are already pink and a little swollen from John’s kiss, the flush creeps over his neck and under his t-shirt. He’s shaking his head slowly, mouth tipped up in a soft smile. “I still can’t tell if this is real or not. Of _course._ Of course I do. I don’t know how to say it-”

John cups a hand around the back of his neck, rubs his thumb into the skin. “Of course it’s real. Of course, it’s- _I love you._ ”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs, mouth pursed, he looks utterly relieved. “I tried. So many times. If there was any indication of- reciprocity, but you were being obtuse, and-”

“You said you were _married to your work,_ ” John accuses him, but without any acid in his tone. He’s too happy at the moment for bitterness. Sherlock is braced against the sink with both palms, in his ratty sweats and his old t-shirt and John can’t even _breathe._ “You said none of this was your area-”

Sherlock makes a face. “I said _women_ weren’t my area-”

“Well, clearly you had to spell it out for me because not all of us are _geniuses-”_

“You said I was your _best friend,_ which in my experience is a decidedly platonic term-“

And then John can’t take it, he kisses him again, as if Sherlock’s mouth has some kind of magnetic pull on him. Sherlock hands fall away from the sink and instead he curls his arms around John’s shoulders, frames his face in a manner that John can only describe as _tender._ They kiss desperately, stopping for breath every few seconds, but who needs _air,_ when Sherlock’s tongue is halfway down his throat and he’s moaning softly into his mouth. 

“You should have told me,” John says hoarsely. “God, why didn’t you _tell_ me, you nutter?”

Sherlock sucks at his bottom lip in a very practiced way. _Hm._ “I couldn’t,” he confesses. “I-” and then he weaves out of the way of John’s mouth. Leaning his forehead against John’s, hands curled around the sides of his neck. “When we met, I...I was still recovering. I had to concentrate on doing better. _Being_ better. But by the time I thought I _could,_ I’d already lost you. Your bisexuality was clear, obviously, but then you didn’t make any more advances after that day and I thought you were simply not interested in me. I was disappointed, but not surprised. You clearly wanted someone more...more _normal-_ ”

John fits his palm over Sherlock’s mouth. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” he says fiercely. Sherlock breathes hot against his palm. His eyes are wide and a little weary as he regards him. God, how can he _still_ think, after all these years...what had John done to make him think this way? “Of course you’re not normal. Who wants normal? You’re _extraordinary_.”

Sherlock swallows, takes John’s wrist in his hand and slowly pulls it away from his face. “I didn’t know, then. I thought that if I’d said something, and it was the _wrong_ thing to say, I wouldn’t have. I’d lose you, and then all of this- the work, everything- none of it would matter.”

“Oh my _god,_ you fool, you absolute fool,” John presses quick kisses wherever he can reach, his chin, the corner of his mouth, the crest of a cheekbone. “How could you not have noticed how gone on you I was? _You_?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock curls his hands into John’s jumper, pulls him up. “Kiss me. Please.”

And John does. John licks into his mouth and he tangles his fingers into his hair, just like he’d wanted to, for ages. He tears off the goggles, they clatter into the sink. Sherlock makes pleased little noises against his mouth and claws at his front. John mouths down the angle of his jaw, over his neck, presses the flat of his tongue against his jugular. And Sherlock goes pliant and soft, just soft begging noises falling from his lips, his hips riding out an unsteady rhythm against John. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, just as John nips at his collarbone, and god, the _sound_ of that.

Sherlock makes another choked off noise when John dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of his throat, his arms flail and he sends a plastic Erlenmeyer flask on the edge of the sink tumbling to the ground. Something wet and vaguely slimy splashes over John’s trousers. “Please tell me that wasn’t corrosive,” John groans, his hand possessively cupped over Sherlock’s bottom. 

“Haven’t the faintest,” Sherlock gasps above him, and tries to continue grinding against John’s thigh. 

“I’m thinking that the kitchen might not be the safest of places to continue this.”

As soon as the words come out of his mouth he realises what he’s just said, and he quickly tries to backpedal like an idiot. “Not that I. I don’t mean- the kitchen is fine.”

“ _Yes._ You’re right. Bedroom,” Sherlock decides, and he grabs more determinedly at John’s jumper. “Yes. _Finally._ ” He starts to drag him out of the kitchen, still stealing little kisses. “If you’re amenable.”

“We don’t _have_ to do anything you don’t want- only if you’re _sure-”_ John stumbles a bit as Sherlock pulls at him a little more enthusiastically. “And you did hurt your head last night; how are you feeling by the way-”

Sherlock growls in displeasure. “Haven’t we waited long _enough_ , John!”

Which crumbles all of John’s (already very weak) resolve. 

They stumble down the hall, Sherlock shucks off his dressing-gown somewhere along the way, kicks at the door to open it, and they’re inside his bedroom. The bedsheets are still rumpled, one of the pillows is on the floor, but that’s as far as John gets before Sherlock bodily pushes him down on the bed. He bounces a bit, and then six feet of lithe, gorgeous detective is crawling over him, and pressing a hot, wet kiss right over his mouth. 

“Can I, can we. I want to- can I-”

“Yes, _yes,_ ” John answers, doesn’t really care what he’s agreeing to. 

And John has had _fantasies,_ alright. John has imagined pushing Sherlock into the mattress often enough, has imagined him taking him roughly, slender wrists in his grasp or hair pulled back in his fist, but this- John is absolutely _fine_ with just lying there and letting Sherlock have his way with him, too. And this is just perfect, actually, the way Sherlock is straddling his hips, bending over to kiss him with a desperation John can definitely match.

(he's a very good kisser, but why is John surprised by that? Maybe Sherlock just has _how to drive someone absolutely insane just by putting my lips on theirs_ stored away somewhere in his mind palace) 

“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, d’you know that?” 

Sherlock pulls away, blinks at him, the blush gracing his cheeks making him look absolutely adorable. “You don’t have to woo me, I’m already in bed with you,” he mumbles.

“I disagree,” John lets his tone go gentle and teasing, and places his hands around Sherlock’s boyishly narrow waist, thrusts his own hips upwards so that he can feel his arousal poking a hole right through his trousers. “I think I’d like to make up for all the lost time and woo you till kingdom come, sweetheart. Problem?”

Sherlock blushes harder, at his words or the endearment, John doesn’t know. “Shut up,” he says, without heat, and then kisses his jaw. “And take off your jumper.”

But John doesn’t get the opportunity to do that because Sherlock doesn’t wait and tugs it off of him instead, rather violently, and it makes John chuckle. “Off,” he continues “All of this, off-”

It makes sense that Sherlock would be bossy and impatient in bed, of course. Sherlock likes immediate gratification. But, John thinks smugly to himself, perhaps he’ll be able to convince Sherlock later that taking the scenic route isn’t half-bad either.

Sherlock divests him of his t-shirt and vest as well, and then skims his lips over John’s shoulder, his scar, over his chest, his heart. Slithers down, down, until he’s level with John’s crotch, breathing hot and humid over his aching erection, and John nearly loses it.

“You don’t have to-” he begins weakly, wondering how they got here so fast. He really hadn’t thought this far, to be honest. He thought this would end with his kiss.

Sherlock shuts him up by mouthing him over his trousers.

He only lifts his head once to haughtily say, “I know that.”

Deft, slender fingers undo his belt, his zipper. And then Sherlock’s mouth slips right over his cock, hot and wet and _tight._ Oh god. Of course he doesn’t do anything by halves. “Sherlock, _fuck-”_ John’s hips immediately jolt, and Sherlock makes a surprised noise, a little bit like choking, and John finds that very hot and this makes him very guilty. 

Sherlock sucks at him with a kind of leisurely self confidence that makes John’s head spin. He takes John’s hand where it’s lying uselessly at his side and puts it on top of his head, so John takes the hint and curls his fingers into his hair and tugs. Sherlock moans at that, and the vibrations around John’s cock have him thrusting a little faster, a little rougher, and he _really_ doesn’t want to choke Sherlock, not on their first time at least-

“ _Jeezus,_ Sherlock, fucking hell-” he raises himself on his elbows to look down at himself, and Sherlock meets his gaze, right underneath his eyelashes, lips pink and stretched around his length. John has had this fantasy many, many times, but actually having Sherlock bent over his cock and bobbing his head up and down on it with the kind of fluid assuredness that speaks of lots and lots of practice, well. Entirely different. (Of course, in the fantasies, Sherlock had no idea what to do when confronted with John’s cock, and John would be coaching him through it- _teaching_ -but of course John knew that Sherlock wasn’t actually a virgin- had probably done this at some point in his life- and now John _also_ knows that he’s brilliant at it)

“You’re so good at this,” John rasps and pulls at his hair some more. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed in pleasure. He’s fucking jealous, alright, because it means other people have been the recipient of Sherlock’s fantastic blowjob technique, and Sherlock’s mouth had pleasured other people just like this, but from now on? Only John will have the honour and privilege, thank you very much. Because it is a privilege- having Sherlock like this. John knows that there have been people in the past who had taken advantage of him- whether it’s old classmates from university or his dealer- and John promises never, _ever_ to make him feel like he doesn’t deserve the very _best._

Sherlock’s tongue laps at the tip, jaw a little slack so everything turns a little bit messy, and he drools at the corners of his mouth- John comes at the sight, clutching at his curls and saying, “ _Sherlock._ ” Sherlock tries to swallow, but he pulls away with a gasp and some of it catches at his throat and chin instead. 

“Come here, come _here,_ ” John demands, as soon as the shaking subsides, and he sits up, grabs Sherlock’s wrists and pulls him into his lap. Sherlock settles into it easily, and the sight of his come dripping down his skin should _not_ be this sexy, and right, it isn’t, because Sherlock wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then licking semen off the pad of his thumb is _infinitely_ sexier.

“It’s been a while since I have engaged in fellatio, I am assuming that was satisfactory,” he says, in a hoarse voice, and John cups the back of his head and kisses him. Chases the taste of his own come in Sherlock’s mouth. _Bloody hell._

“I love you,” John says again, because he can’t say anything else. And then, because Sherlock deserves some appreciation: “That was the best blowjob of my life.”

“Good,” Sherlock kisses him back, in a charmingly clumsy way, and John finds himself giving Sherlock’s skull a cursory check, since his hand is there already.

“You’re fine, though, yeah, your head doesn’t hurt?”

Sherlock pulls away and gives him an amused look. “I’m perfectly fine, _doctor,_ ” and that, that is _definitely_ flirtatious, and John knows this for sure because Sherlock is in his lap, hard and squirming and he just had John’s cock down his throat a few minutes ago. 

“Right, so, maybe,” John slides his other hand up his thigh, cups his erection between his legs, and Sherlock’s smirk vanishes, replaced by a surprised _oh._ “Maybe you’ll let me return the favour now.” And then he rubs him, slowly. Sherlock’s cock fits very nicely in his hand. “However you want it.”

“I have a better idea,” Sherlock tells him, voice breathy and high.

John places his mouth on his neck, sucks. “Yeah? What’s that, then?”

“I think we should have penetrative intercourse.”

John’s spent cock gives a faint stir. “Um.” 

“I mean,” Sherlock’s fingers dig into his chest. “I mean I _want._ I _want_ you that way, John. I wanted it for so long, please-”

John might just spontaneously combust. Sherlock’s hips twitch restlessly against his, his erection rubbing against John’s thigh as though Sherlock could just get off from that. John strokes a hand down his back. “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock hisses, impatiently, and then pushes John back down onto the bed with his palms on his chest. 

John looks up at him, his cheeks stained red and his hair already forming frizzy little tangles over his face. “Woah. Okay. Hello, there,” he curls his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, and suddenly wants him very much out of his clothes. 

“How do you want me?” Sherlock’s voice is breathless, eager to please.

“Well, naked, preferably,” John smirks, and Sherlock immediately takes off his t-shirt, throws it somewhere behind himself. 

John lets his eyes trail leisurely down his body, the pale, smooth skin, and skids a hand over his ribs. “And how would you like-” Sherlock begins, looking uncertain, and a little shy. _Why_ would he be shy, John thinks, when he is the most handsome man John has ever met in his life and John will be happy to do _anything_ with him? 

John will have him however Sherlock wants to give it to him. Honestly. The fantasies always went a certain way, but those were just fantasies. Right now the reality is simply that John wants to be _close_ to him. 

“Sherlock, it really doesn’t matter to me. After all that _waiting,_ I don’t care. I’m all yours. What do _you_ want?”

Sherlock runs his tongue over his upper lip, a thoroughly absent gesture but it could be absolutely _deliberate_ for the way John’s cock twitches rather demandingly against Sherlock’s arse. “I want you to fuck me,” he states, very matter-of-factly. “If. If that’s alright with you.”

John holds down his hips and grinds Sherlock down against his crotch. “Pretty sure I’m alright with that.”

Sherlock shivers, eyes fluttering. “Where should I-”

“Well, I am _loving_ the view from here, darling, so you can just stay where you are,” he says, and Sherlock looks gratifyingly put-upon and pleased at the same time.

“I see, so you just want to _lie_ there like a lazy old man,” he complains, and John grins. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Excuse me, I have the love of my life on top of me, this mad wanker I’ve been in love with for _ages,_ so maybe you could let me _lie_ here and appreciate him?” Sherlock huffs in response. “Also, no rush or anything, but I’d appreciate him more if he took off his pyjamas.”

Pyjamas come flying off, and then Sherlock pulls John’s trousers off as well, for good measure. Lube is procured; Sherlock has some in his bedside drawer. John raises the topic of condoms and Sherlock vehemently opposes them, and informs John that both of them are, in fact, clean. John doesn’t want to know how Sherlock knows that so he just lies there, grateful and aroused. Sherlock drizzles a fair amount of lube onto his fingers, and he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing doesn’t he, Mr I’m Flattered By Your Interest But I’m Married To My Work.

“And what did you use this for, hmm?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock replies without a beat, and then reaches behind himself. Obviously this drives John mad. Does this mean Sherlock had used lubricant for an actual experiment, or does he occasionally shove his fingers up his arse for science? John will have to find out one day. For now he settles for lazily stroking Sherlock’s cock while he fingers himself, his bottom lip pinned underneath his teeth and his other hand resting on John’s stomach.“Not going to last,” he whispers, “If you touch me like that.”

“Like what?” John asks innocently, and continues his slow teasing. Sherlock just shakes his head, quite unable to say anything. John’s cock starts filling out again at the sight of Sherlock writhing on top of him, shakily thrusting in and out of John’s fist and stretching himself open. By the time he’s finished, John’s achingly hard, and Sherlock has dribbled a mess over him already. John smooths a hand over his waist. “Alright there?”

Sherlock nods, and then rests both his palms on John’s chest. Sinks down. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” John hisses, fingers immediately curling tight over his hips. Iliac crest digs into his skin. Sherlock’s mouth falls open, John tries not to simply drive upwards and slam into him. He stays still, the effort making him tremble, until Sherlock is bottomed out. Sweat glistens over his chest, makes his hair stick to his temples. He’s perfect around him, tight and hot and- _christ._

“John,” Sherlock says, and rolls his hips. “I-” 

“Look at you. You look beautiful. Keep going,” John rubs his palms over Sherlock’s straining thighs, the prominent dips of his ribs. Sherlock nods, bends over him and begins to move, a halting, unsteady rhythm that drives John crazy. 

“John,” he says again, face flushed, eyes bright, “You’re...that feels…” another hapless toss of his head. 

“Go on, tell me,” John urges, guiding Sherlock’s movements a little, hands on his hips.. There- slower, because John is going to come in about three seconds if Sherlock bounces on his cock like that- a little smoother, love, there’s no rush- go on, relax, take your time-

“ _Fuck,_ it feels good, John, it feels very...good,” Sherlock straightens up a little, rips John’s hands from his waist and then slots their fingers together. Nearly crushes them in his grip, but that’s okay, because Sherlock seems to be helplessly chasing his own pleasure, gaze clouded and fixed on John’s desperately, and John could stare at him for ages. He looks like a vision, a fantasy turned flesh and blood. John still can’t believe his bloody _luck._

“God, I’ve never- it’s never been like this. You’re _very_ adequately sized, John. I _did_ have a working hypothesis- judging from your gait and your height, but- _oh, god-_ the- _ah,_ to actually have it _inside_ -” at this point Sherlock goes a little bit nonverbal.

“That’s lovely, sweetheart,” John grunts, trying to hold on, even as his hips start to cant upwards a little with every roll of Sherlock’s slender hips. Every time John does that Sherlock makes a sweet little noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and it’s the hottest thing John has ever heard. “That’s it. Come on.”

Sherlock keens, thighs trembling, his cock hard and flushed and resting along his thigh. John wants to touch him, but Sherlock seems to be unwilling to let go of his hands. “John, I can’t-” his hips stutter, and he suddenly looks absolutely overwhelmed, quivering just a little bit on John’s lap. “John. _John.”_

“Alright. Shush. I’ve got you,” John gently eases his hands from his, and Sherlock lets him. And then he curls an arm around his waist. “Come here,” he says, and Sherlock takes the hint, lets John shift him to the side, off his cock and onto the mattress, right on his back. John climbs over him, hooks his hands underneath his thighs, drags him towards himself, and Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist easily, one ankle over the other, locking John into place.

John kisses his brow. “Better?”

Sherlock nods fervently, throws his arms around John’s shoulders. “Yes, now, if you could-”

John pushes inside of him before he can finish the sentence. Sherlock’s voice hitches, the words dissolve into a whimper. “ _Oh,_ god.”

Sherlock cups the back of his head; they lean their foreheads together. They’re both sticky and a little gross with sweat, but John doesn’t care. He kisses him underneath his left eye, over the bruise, over the cut on his cheek. “I love you,” he whispers into his ear, pulls out and shoves in again, hard enough for Sherlock to gasp, for his fingers to claw into his hair.

“ _John,_ I, don’t stop, please.”

As if John _could._ He takes Sherlock’s wrists in his hands, laces their fingers together and pulls them on either side of his head. Sherlock’s legs tighten their hold around him, heels bouncing against the small of his back as John fucks him back and forth across the bed. The sheets tangle, twist. Sherlock arches underneath him, mouth falling open, eyes wide and dark and glazed over.

“John, I didn’t, I didn’t tell you, but I- _ah, fuck-_ I do, as well,” Sherlock’s wrists squirm underneath his grip, he bears down on each of John’s thrusts. “Love you, that is. In case it- _hnngh-_ wasn’t clear.”

John kisses the corner of his mouth, slows down just a little to drag out the inevitable release. “I know, I know you do.” Another push, deeper, and suddenly Sherlock gasps, turns into some gorgeous, writhing thing, hips jerking unsteadily against him. 

“Loved you since- _ah,_ the day I s- _aw_ you. There, oh god, _there-_ ”

He lets go of his wrists, but Sherlock doesn’t move, lies there with his hands up over his head, twisting into the sheets. John holds him up with his own hands around his waist, angles his hips upward and drives in, again and again, just to see Sherlock mewl and call his name each time he hits his prostate. He’s exquisite. John knows this. The entire world knows this, and they can look and admire from afar, but this? This belongs to him now, just as Sherlock owns him entirely. Sherlock owned him right from the beginning, honestly. 

“Love you,” Sherlock tells him again, and his hand flies to his forearm, clutches at him so hard it’ll surely bruise. “I’m going to, I’m _going to-_ ”

John wraps one hand around his cock, the other keeping Sherlock cradled in his lap, pulls at him. A few quick strokes and Sherlock goes rigid, eyes finding John’s, mouth parted wide and frozen in a silent gasp. He shudders and comes, spurting all over himself. 

“ _John,_ John-”

He goes boneless and limp in a few moments, panting and still looking dazed, his body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. John has to hold up both thighs as he chases orgasm, fucking into him as he lies there looking blissed out, eyes unfocused. He bends over, knocks their mouths together just as he spills into him. Sherlock cups his face with both hands, lets his mouth open around John’s tongue, nips at John’s lip. 

“Fuck, _fuck,_ ” John hisses, until the last of it is wrenched out of him, and he stills, finally, hovering over Sherlock. 

He feels like he might have just blacked out for a few seconds. When he comes to, he’s still on top of him, but Sherlock is gently stroking his face, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples. His gaze is unbearably fond. “Hi.”

John laughs, a quick exhale, and pecks him on the mouth, after which he gently eases out and rolls off of him. Sherlock still winces a bit. John’s head hits the back of the pillow and there’s silence for a few unbearably long moments. Not a terrible, awkward silence, but it’s heavy nonetheless. Because that was. That was. John swallows, unable to find words. Maybe there aren’t any. Maybe it’s a thing that happens, if you’re very lucky, if the universe deems you worthy, and you just have to be grateful.

“Can I,” Sherlock says, very quietly, but loud enough to break the silence. John turns to look at him. His eyes are wide and weary, and his bottom lip is pinned by his teeth in a very nervous gesture. Surely he isn’t-? “Can I, er,” and then he makes an awkward, aborted shift towards John, eyes immediately flashing with the tiniest bit of embarrassment, and John understands.

“Sherlock, love. _Yes._ Come here,” John shifts closer to him so Sherlock doesn’t have to bridge the gap between them, and something twists in his chest as Sherlock plasters himself to John’s side like a cuddly cephalopod, head resting on his shoulder. Curls tickle his chin, his nose. They both have semen all over them. John doesn’t care. He only wraps an arm around Sherlock’s back, pulls him as close as he can. 

Sherlock sighs, reminding John of a particularly comfortable cat. 

Of course Sherlock would want that, and of course he’d think that he’d have to _ask_ John for it, as though John didn’t want to be touching him 24x7 already. Had he really ever thought that this man was incapable of affection? This man who was so content to be curled up, naked, right on top of him? This man, who, for some insane reason, loved John _back_?

John finds himself stroking Sherlock’s hair. For several long, lovely seconds.

“The things I said last night,” Sherlock suddenly says. Warm breath flutters over John’s chest. “I remember what I said. I meant it. Every word. In the morning I thought it was the worst possible thing I could have ever done. But I suppose, in hindsight…”

Oh, God. He _does_ remember. 

John pulls him up so that his head rests on the pillow next to him. Sherlock, loose-limbed and still a bit pliant, allows himself to be manhandled. “Sherlock,” he says, slowly, his own voice surprisingly steady. “I did, too. I meant it, too, I mean. What I said. That bit about choosing you. And the other bits too, obviously. But you have no idea. Of course, I chose you. But only because you chose me first, thought I was worth choosing. I mean, I really have no idea why. I’m..I’m ordinary.” Not like you, he wants to say. Because how could John ever live up to what Sherlock deserves? How could he hope to? Sherlock- brilliant, mad, clever, hilarious when he wanted to be- and breathtakingly beautiful to top it off? John still couldn’t believe that Sherlock had seen him and thought, _yep, I’ll have that one._

(That he’d put so much effort in trying to make him stay when the last thing that John had ever wanted was to leave him.)

Sherlock frowns at him, disbelieving. “You’re an idiot,” he says flatly.

Which pulls a little laugh out of John’s mouth. 

“You have never been ordinary,” Sherlock continues, eyes growing clearer by the second. “Never. Not in all the time I’ve known you. You are, and always have been, extraordinary. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

John’s mouth falls a little open. It’s one thing to hear words of devotion from Sherlock’s lips when he’s high as a kite and half-asleep, or breathless and begging as John kisses him. It’s something else entirely to hear him say it like this- mouth set in a determined line, eyes shining with sincerity. Sherlock’s fingers find his and they lace together seamlessly.

“Sherlock-”

“Do you think I would have loved you the way I do if you had been _ordinary_ ? I saw you, and I just _knew._ ” Sherlock swallows, and he blinks a few times as though trying to hold back something. John doesn’t have to ask what he _knew._ It was the same thing John knew when he’d seen him- only he’d been rather slow about it.

“Yeah,” he breathes, their fingers tightening around each other. “You saw me. No one’s ever seen me the way you did.”

“I should hope not,” Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and the curves into an amused smirk. “You have enough admirers as it is.”

“ _Me_? I’m sorry, have you ever looked behind yourself at the trail of bodies you leave in your wake?”

Sherlock laughs, and it’s such a gorgeous sound; a little overwhelmed, a little incredulous. His eyes sparkle like they do when he’s about to sink his teeth into a good case.“ _Thank you_ for that vivid image, Caption Three-Continents-Watson,” he says, the last word dissolving into a dark purr. It makes John want to grab him, climb on top of him, make a mess of him again. 

Suddenly, John realises, with a sense of unreality- that they’re in bed. Together. Naked. _Talking._ Teasing each other. And it’s not mad at all. It’s...natural. Completely and utterly natural. Sherlock, with his just-shagged hair hanging in damp ringlets around his face, his infectious smile, his bare skin pressed to John’s, they’re holding hands like teenagers, and John had never known for _certain,_ had he, how long he’d wanted this, only that it had been long enough, unbearably long- and to actually be able to do it, touch him. Like this. Well. 

To tuck a curl behind his ear. Watch as it makes him blush, his expression fond and tender and surprised. 

John doesn’t want him to be surprised. John wants him to _expect_ it. He wants him to never be in doubt that John Watson will love him for every single moment of every single day.

Christ, he sounds like a fucking sap. Thank God Sherlock can’t actually read minds.

Sherlock’s smile fades a bit, not completely, but it curves into something sad and oddly wistful. “I wanted to tell you,” he murmurs, “After I came back.”

Something flashes across his face. Regret. “But you. You kept going on dates. And you were still angry with me, I supposed. It took a while to fix it, our..” he swallows, hesitating before he continues. “Relationship.”

Sherlock looks achingly _sad_ . John can’t stand it. All this time, Sherlock had been wavering on the cusp of telling him, and John had been an utter wanker, going out with women he didn’t even _like,_ and even before that, parading girlfriends in front of him and _shagging them in the flat._ John had thought he would explode from the jealousy when Sherlock had slept with a client, and all _he’d_ seen was the aftermath of that. How had Sherlock felt? He feels sick. He opens his mouth to explain, to _apologise,_ but Sherlock interrupts him, not quite meeting his gaze. He fixes his eyes on a spot near his collarbone, his fingers twisting in John’s grasp. “And I...I didn’t know, if. Even if you had accepted. If I would be able to...provide you with what you wanted. I am not, as you know, suited to these things. What if I disappointed you? What if I did something to upset you- inadvertently- and you realised that it was too much bother to be with me at all? What if you _left_?”

John stares at him for a second before ripping his hands away from Sherlock and using them to cup his face. “Sherlock,” he says, name leaving his mouth in a rush of breath. “Sherlock, calm down. Hey. Hey, that’s not never going to happen, okay? You are everything I want. Disappoint me? Jesus, how? I want _you._ And that’s everything, you know. Even all the mad bits.”

“Then you’ll grow bored. When I can no longer provide you with excitement-”

Where was all this coming from? John grows even more alarmed. “No,” John says, loudly. Resolutely. “That’s not even. No, absolutely not. Do you think the only thing I love you for is the adrenaline? Sherlock, you could decide to retire tomorrow and never touch a case again and it would not make the slightest difference to me. I would still be completely gone on you. I love _you,_ you idiot.”

“I am not easy to live with-”

“Really? _That’s_ news to me, since I moved in yesterday, apparently-”

Sherlock steamrolls on, undeterred. “And I’ll forget important dates. Birthdays, the like. I’ve never been good with that sort of thing.”

“Are you trying to scare me off? Because it’s not working. I _know_ all of this already, you numpty. And it doesn’t _matter_ to me. You remember the important things. When did we meet?”

“Twenty-ninth of January, 2010,” Sherlock answers promptly, and then immediately looks irritated with himself, and probably at John’s smug expression.

“Well, I’d say you’re covered,” John cups the back of his head, weaves his fingers through the springy curls, and slants his mouth against Sherlock’s. Presses his lips against the disgruntled twist of his mouth, and John _adores_ him. John thinks he’s insane for thinking stupid things like that would ever drive him off, and he doesn’t mind spending years and years convincing Sherlock exactly _how_ insane he is by loving him better than anyone could hope to, better than Sherlock would ever expect.

Sherlock is still for a few seconds, but then he carefully kisses John back. Warm fingers skim over his abdomen. “You really do,” he murmurs against his mouth. “You really do want this. With me.”

“Mm-hmm,” John replies, deploying his tongue with quiet confidence. Sherlock squirms a bit and makes a pleased noise.

“A romantic relationship.”

He breaks away to gasp, “Pretty sure that’s what they’re called,” before kissing him again. He can’t get _enough._

“Despite-”

“ _Because_ of,” John corrects, reluctantly pulling away, because perhaps Sherlock needs a little more convincing at that particular moment. “Because of everything. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, you know. Well, maybe if you could wash the dishes or do the laundry once in a while, that’d be great, but really, you’re perfect, sweetheart. Even when I storm off because you’re acting like a git, I will love you. I will _always_ love you. Okay? Now come here.”

And then there is some more kissing, John using his teeth and tongue and his mouth to say _everything, I adore everything about you, the annoying bits, the really weird bits, because they’re all a part of you, and you wouldn’t be you without them. I love you even when you’re being an annoying dick, I love you even when you melt my toothbrush because it’s your idea of fun, I love you because you’re clever, and charming, and warm and funny and absolutely, unbelievably, amazing._

He can’t say all of it, because honestly, it would go on forever. But he tries to tell him, anyway.

There is another slow, shuddering orgasm, John’s hand around Sherlock and Sherlock pleading and gasping into the crook of his neck, body trembling. And at this point John has no choice but to clean them both up and change the sheets, because he doesn’t quite fancy the idea of falling asleep on a layer of tacky, dried semen. He tells Sherlock this, and Sherlock, who had been lying on his stomach, blissful and sated, suddenly regards him with wide eyes.

“You wish to sleep here? With me?” He raises his head from the cradle of his forearms a bit.

John stares at him. “Yes?” And then a horrible feeling spreads over him. Maybe this is too much, too soon for Sherlock. Maybe he’s not ready for that yet. He feels sick with guilt. “I mean- unless you-”

“No,” Sherlock says quickly, and John deflates even more, “I mean- _yes._ Yes, I want you to. Next to me. Yes, please. I would like that. Erm. I am amenable.”

John is standing at the foot of the bed, wet flannel in hand, and he almost drops to the floor with relief. He grins down at Sherlock, this terribly sexy man who’s just _lying_ in his bed, half-covered with a blanket as though he doesn’t think much of modesty, and John can’t believe how lucky he is. The man who is quickly rolling over to the other side of the bed and then looking at John expectantly, like a cat that’s just dropped a dead rat at its owner’s feet. _Well? Do you like it? Get on with it, then._

“And every day,” Sherlock adds, half an hour later, when they’re on clean, dry sheets, curled up together. Sherlock’s back to his chest. “After this. If you’d like. I find that I would very much like for us to sleep here, together. It’s only logical. My room is closer, and the mattress is much better.”

“I,” John whispers, kissing the top of his ear. Sherlock shivers. “Would like that very, very much.”

***

When he used to bring girlfriends over, in those early days of his and Sherlock’s acquaintance, he’d never been able to sleep. They would, obviously. Roll over all satisfied and limp, and sleep so peacefully that John would be jealous. He couldn’t because back then he’d still have those horrible nightmares- with the sand and the grit and the blood, and the _dying._ So he’d just lie on his back, staring at the ceiling.

And he’d think of Sherlock.

Was he asleep? Experimenting? Reading? Not playing his violin, John would have heard him. He did that, sometimes. When he had a girl over. _Just to annoy me,_ he would think. _That bloody pillock._

John would imagine him, soft and rumpled in his thin pyjamas, sprawled underneath his covers. (And later on, when he’d found out that Sherlock slept _naked,_ apparently...well. Then the imagining had become distinctly filthy, tumbling right into pornographic territory)

Sherlock slept like a starfish, long limbs every which way, mouth open and snoring softly. It made sharing a bed together very uncomfortable, sometimes. John only put up with it because it just meant more touching. More brushes of skin that he could write off as _accidental._

He’d think of him, and something would twist in his gut, and he never really thought much of it.

The nightmares had stopped, eventually. Living with Sherlock definitely had quite a bit to do with it. They’d returned when he was away, of course, but they’d changed. The battlefield was still there, corpses still littered the desert sand, but this time, there was Sherlock underneath his hands, gasping and bleeding out even as John desperately tried to stitch him back together. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

_Please God, let him live._

Silver eyes, locked on his, wide with panic and fear. Blood on his mouth. Everywhere. Hold on. Hold on for me, Sherlock-

Don’t. Don’t go. _Please._

And then. Gone. Nothing but curling black smoke in his hands. 

_Gone._

John pulls Sherlock closer, holds him a bit tighter. He has the real Sherlock here, now. Safe and secure in his arms, and John would die before he let anything happen to him. Well, he’d rather not die because then who would protect him? But the sentiment of it holds true, at least.

He’d fallen asleep quickly. Maybe all the sex had tired him out. John had as well, but then he’d woken up soon after. The strangeness of the new bed, perhaps. Or simply the unbelievable way Sherlock was curled up against him. Dressed in nothing but his thin pyjama pants. His skin is warm against John’s own, and John can feel the scrapes and rough patches of his scars. They look almost ghostly in the pale moonlight. Sherlock’s curved body makes the ridges of his spine more prominent, the sharp blades of his shoulders, his ribs. John trails his fingers over the scars. Whip. Knife. Cigarette burns. Something jagged- broken glass, perhaps.

If I’d been there, he thinks, I would have taken each of these for you. Before they even touched you. They’d have had to go through me.

Sherlock stirs, and John immediately pulls his hand away. Shit. He hadn’t wanted to wake him up. He sleeps little enough as it is. He hopes Sherlock will just fidget a bit more and then slip off to sleep again, but instead he makes a soft noise as though he’s just yawned, and he rolls over. Bright silver eyes, half-lidded and blinking blearily, regard him. 

“John,” Sherlock slurs, and he yawns again. And then he covers the distance between the two of them to press a soft, warm kiss to John’s mouth. Very chaste, almost a peck. And then he settles back comfortably on to his pillow. John is about to open his mouth and tell him to go back to sleep, but Sherlock says, instead. “I missed you terribly.”

John shuts his mouth. “But I’m right here,” he reassures him.

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, sighs, stretches a bit, and then burrows into John, forehead pressed against his sternum. “When I was away. I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe.”

 _Oh._ John swallows past a hard lump in his throat, and he wraps an arm around Sherlock, strokes his back. 

Sherlock’s breathing evens out a bit, so he thinks he’s drifted off. But John still says, into the darkness, “Me too. I mean. When you were gone. I didn’t even feel like a person. Sometimes it felt like you’d taken a bit of me with you, and that’s probably why I felt like that. And when you came back, you seemed so surprised, like you couldn’t believe what your...death..would do to me.”

He knows now that Sherlock isn’t asleep because he can hear his breath quicken against his chest. He shifts a bit. “I didn’t,” he finally says, very quietly. His voice is muffled. Maybe Sherlock finds it difficult to say these things to his face, as well. “Not then. But I do now. I understand.”

John smiles, buries his nose in the top of Sherlock’s head, right into his thick curls, and inhales. 

“Will you promise me something?”

Sherlock makes an intrigued noise, as if John had just suggested something very interesting. “Of course,” he rumbles. And then he pulls his head away from John’s chest and slithers awkwardly until they’re facing each other. “Anything,” he adds.

“I never thanked you,” John strokes a sharp cheekbone with his knuckles. “For what you did. All that time when you were away.”

Sherlock frowns. “Don’t thank me,” he sounds a little angry. John immediately shuts his mouth, wondering what he’d said wrong. “Why on earth would you thank me? I- I love you,” he swallows as soon as he says that. “Of course I would do it. I was keeping you safe. It wasn’t a _favour.”_

Oh, God. John is an idiot. “I know. I _know._ Christ, that really didn’t come out right.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. John shoots him a withering look, not knowing how effective that is in the dark room. “I’m just saying. I’m grateful. I never said that. I want you to know that I am.”

“If you’re going to make me promise to never do that again, I’m afraid I will have to decline,” Sherlock’s eyes flash and his mouth is set in a fierce line. “If you were ever in danger, if there was no other way, you know I would do it, John. You _know_ that.”

“Yeah, wasn’t going to. Because if it was me, I would do it in a heartbeat. Whatever I had to do to protect you. So-”

“You know how sorry I am for putting you through that, but given the choice-”

“ _Sherlock._ ” John covers his mouth with his hand and Sherlock immediately shuts up. “I _know_ that. No. Here’s what I want you to promise me. If it happens again. Something like that. You’ll take me with you. Because you’re not alone anymore, love. You have me. We’re in this together, you and I. The two of us against the rest of the world, remember?

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he grows very still. He doesn’t even try to bat John’s hand away. For what feels like several very long seconds, he doesn’t say or do anything at all. And then, when John is starting to get slightly concerned, he gently curls a hand around John’s wrist and pulls it away, and in a gesture that is so sweetly tender, kisses his palm. “Not my first choice,” he says, in a low voice. “I’d rather you were safe and sound here. But you’re not that kind of man, are you, John,” he smiles at him, half teasing, half exasperated. “You’ve never liked _safe._ ”

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock smirks.

No. Safe was for people who weren’t in love with Sherlock. And John wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I suppose pursuing this means that I must allow you your protective tendencies,” Sherlock skims his mouth over John’s fingertips. “I did always prefer having you by side, all gun-toting and dangerous.”

“That’s very flattering of you,” John mentions dryly.

“Hmm. Knowing us, that will probably happen again, won’t it?”

“I’d be disappointed if it didn’t, actually.”

“We do make a formidable team, you and I.” Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s. “Very well. I promise. Now kiss me.”

John grins, jerks Sherlock towards him, making him giggle. (Yep, he can make Sherlock Holmes _giggle._ ) And then he kisses him. Hard and fast and a little bit bruising, but it’s kind of warranted at the moment. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. Honestly, Sherlock seems to give as good as he gets; the man really does like to _bite._

Sherlock loves him. And John has a lifetime of loving him back. 

***

The next morning, Sherlock finds himself waking up to his nose in John’s chest. They wake up, and John kisses him. Sherlock will wonder if he’s still dreaming. He has fantasised plenty about waking up together, it’s difficult to imagine this time it’s real. 

John brushes his fingertips down the side of his face when he pulls away. Early morning sunlight filters through their window, illuminating all the blonde-grey-honey gold strands of John’s hair. “Good morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep. 

Sherlock suddenly realises with a jolt that he has the honor of hearing that sleep-rough voice every morning from now on. 

He could watch all that blonde-grey-honey-gold turn to silver, over the years. He could watch lovingly as age takes John and makes him wrinkled and soft but every bit as dangerous as the day they met. 

He doesn’t tell John this. This is terrifying enough, being so close to him. Skin to skin. Waking up together. _Having._

“It is,” he rumbles, burrowing into John’s body. Head tucked under his chin, tangling their legs together. Arm thrown over his waist. He can do this now. He can touch. Properly. He can lick the sleep-sweat off of John’s chest, he can press against his morning hardness and demand reciprocation. He can whisper _I love you, John Watson, more than anything else in the world, and who cares if the earth revolves around the sun? My world revolves around you._

Sherlock generally avoids lie-ins, unless he’s just finished a case. But there is something to be said for lazing together on their filthy sheets with nothing to do except kiss each other slowly, luxuriously, map parts of skin they didn’t manage to last night. John’s appendectomy scar. The calluses on his hands from handling his gun. John brushes his mouth over each of the scars on his back, and then on the others; his never-quite-healed-after-Serbia finger, knife-scar along his ribs, John’s jaw tenses and his eyes go dark when he sees the wound on his bicep from a near-bullet. 

Sherlock knows they’re not beautiful. They don’t make him feel dangerous, or powerful, they don’t make him feel like more of a man. But when John touches them, so reverently, with mouth and tongue and the soft press of his fingers, they make him feel _thankful._

I did this for you. And even if I could go back, I’d do the same thing again. 

John kisses him, deeply and _adoringly_ and Sherlock thinks: this is how it feels. This is how it feels to be loved back. To be _chosen._

Later, as they lie there, panting hard and damp with sweat (again) Sherlock touches his fingertips to John’s mouth and asks, “Are we lovers?”

They must be. This is- Sherlock can’t have misread anything _this_ time. He’s been a blind idiot - a terrified idiot, to be precise, but he can deduce now. Lovers wake up together. Lovers make quiet professions of everlasting devotion between kisses. Because he _is_ quite devoted to John, and even though it’s taken him a while, John knows this now. 

John sucks at his fingers in response. And then: “Obviously, genius. We love each other, ergo, we are lovers.”

“Say it again. What you said. Last night.” _Please._ (It’s stupid. Sentimental. John had made his feelings clear last night. Hearing them again won’t make them any _truer,_ will it? But perhaps sentiment is explanation enough for this strange desire of his.)

John’s smile is somehow the perfect blend of smug and fond. He look unbearably boyish with his sex hair. 

“I love you,” John whispers, and kisses his palm, eyes never leaving his face. “I am so, _so_ in love with you.”

It’s real. It’s perfect. John Watson _loves_ him. 

Sherlock will probably never get tired of hearing it. Or of saying it. Out loud. Not in his head, not struggling to restrain the words before they leave the dubious safety of his mouth. 

Just this once - Sherlock doesn’t detest repetitions. 

Later: there will be breakfast, and tea, and Sherlock will keep kissing him, because he can, because he’s _allowed,_ now. Kissing John is addictive. After years of fantasising, actually having John’s mouth for his own to explore is something else entirely.

And later, John will tell him, over the dining table, fingers laced against his own: This is it, you know that right? I want this to last. Till death do us part, and all that. Not that I’m asking you to marry me. I mean, not that I _don’t_ want to marry you, of course I want to- you know what, that’s a whole different conversation. Anyway, I just. I want you to know. I love you, I want to live with you, grow old with you. Yeah. That’s better. So. If you’re okay with that.

And Sherlock will drink his tea thoughtfully and say, I’ve always wanted to keep bees. 

Bees? John will ask, confused. Natural, John was only just making the most adorable confession.

Yes, bees. I think I’ll get a cottage in Sussex, and keep bees, when I’m too old for legwork. Chasing after criminals, you know.

Am I..am I part of that plan, John will ask hesitantly. 

Sherlock will take his hand, and kiss his knuckles and say, Of course. Your knees will eventually wear out, just like mine. We’ll live there together, _obviously._ I’m sure you’ll like Sussex. You could grow carrots. Shout at the neighborhood children when they sneak into your garden. You’ll get bored sometimes, so I’ll have to keep thinking up ways to keep you on your toes. Can't have you getting bored, John. 

John’s jaw will tighten and his eyes will go a little misty (adorable) and he’ll nod and say, I think you’ll manage. I don’t think you’re even capable of boring me. I have never been bored with you. Not a day in our lives. Don’t see that changing. And I honestly don’t care, like I told you. We could be knitting together in our last days and I’d still be as happy then as I am now. 

And after that, Sherlock will get up from his chair and move to the other side of the dining table, fit himself right on John’s lap. He’d been right of course, the position is awkward; Sherlock’s lanky limbs make it a tad difficult.

But this way, he can hold John’s face in his hands and kiss him, taste the tea he’d been drinking. And he can pull away just far enough so that only their lips brush and he can whisper, _I love you._

Sunlight fills their kitchen, makes John’s eyes look even bluer. Sherlock kisses him and kisses him until they’re gasping, and then he just sits there, on John’s lap, wrapped around him, unwilling to let go.

Sherlock does wonder what John found in him that was interesting enough, attractive enough- it might take some getting used to, being the object of John Watson’s ever-increasing affection. He does ask, though. Several times. He supposes John could give several answers, but instead he always says, because you’re _you._ And that doesn’t make a lot of sense to him, but Sherlock is learning that it doesn’t really matter.

John _loves him back_ , and it’s enough.


End file.
